kirtle of Danish red; helped to convey the idea
of comfort and prosperous circumstances.

Baron Dyring would not hear of our leaving
him that morning, as we, self-invited guests that
we were, had naturally meant to do. No, no, that
must never be; strangers from England were
rare birds of passage in that nook of the kingdom;
and we must not quit the house of a
Jutland gentleman without giving ourselves time to
learn something of Jutland ways. The Dyring
family pledged themselves to amuse us; and, to
begin with, an otter hunt had already been fixed
for that very morning. Our host was famous for
his otter hounds. And two old otters, with some
three or four cubs nearly full grown, had of
late been extremely destructive to the sea-trout
in the fiord, and the brook-trout in the streams.
Also, Herr Williams, as an artist, would perhaps
be good enough to look over Mademoiselle
Christina's portfolio of water-colour and chalk
sketches, and the baron was anxious to ask me
some questions about British farming, and so
forth. In fact, they would not let us go. The
postilion and his horses were dismissed, and we
were understood to be fixtures for at least a
week under the roof of Rothesgaard.

It fell out, however, that my own sojourn at
Rothesgaard bade fair to exceed the limits of the
week's stay to which we were tacitly held to be
bound. This was due to an accident that
occurred in the course of the day's sport.
Following up the shaggy otter hounds, then in full
and fierce cry at the heels of one of the biggest
and most active of their amphibious foes, I was
emboldened to take rather a rash leap across a
brook with high banks and a rocky bed. The
jump was no trifling one; but I had been
thought a good leaper in my school-days, and I
was piqued by seeing Kalf Dyring, whose
strength and activity were remarkable, clear
the stream with a bound, and then turn round
and laugh heartily at Williams, who stood
baffled on the brink. The baron and his eldest
son, with the huntsmen and the other men,
declined the dangerous leap, and pushed on
towards a plank bridge a quarter of a mile off;
I, with an Englishman's dislike to being beaten,
resolved to face the brook. I had better have
imitated the prudence of the rest, for though I
got across, my feet only touched the opposite
bank, which crumbled and broke under my
weight, and down I went, spraining my ankle,
bruising my right arm, and plumping into a
deep pool, too much hurt to swim.

Kalf Dyring—he had received his queer name
in honour of some renowned ancestor of Pagan
days—dragged me out of the water, and with
some little trouble lifted me on to the bank. At
first, I was too dizzy and sick to speak or stir,
and I believe the honest young fellow thought
I was killed outright, and through a prank of
his own; for, as I afterwards heard, the place
where the otter had crossed was called by the
baron's tenants "Childe Kalf's Spring," as no
one in the parish but himself dared attempt it.
But I soon came to myself, and sat up, while
the hunters, whom a twist in the chase had
brought back, gathered round me in some alarm.
When I tried to rise, with Kalf's help, down
I sank again with a groan.

They carried me home, these honest Danes,
blaming themselves, most unnecessarily as I
thought, for their want of forethought in leading
a stranger into such perils. Indeed, I fancy that
the general impression among them was that
foreigners were delicate creatures, unfit for
rough Jutland sports and hardships, and that
they had behaved very inhospitably in not taking
sufficient care of their English guests. We
were soon back at the château, and I doubt if
any sufferer ever had more tender nursing than
I. Were it possible, according to the old saw,
to be killed with kindness, that would have
been my fate surely. However, the hurt I had
received was no joke as far as pain and inflammation
went, and I fainted as they were carrying
me up the oaken stairs, from sheer force of
torture. The doctor, who was brought from five
leagues off, gave it as his decided opinion that I
would not be able to walk for a month at least.

This little incident, along with a great deal of
pain to myself and trouble to others, brought
with it consequences which in the long run
were important. My convalescence, when once
I could hobble about, propped on a crutch-
headed cane, was agreeable enough. It was the
pleasant summer-time. The birch, beech, and
evergreen oak, were in full leaf and shade;
the sweet old-fashioned flowers in the sunny
garden bloomed gloriously; and the hum of
the countless bees, that alternated between
the rose-trees and the moorland heather, was
peaceful and soothing to the nerves of an
invalid. Williams had long since returned to
Copenhagen. With the Dyrings I was on
the footing of old friendship. I had gone, on
the back of a quiet pony, warranted not to
indulge in gambols that might embarrass a rider
who dared not as yet put his left foot into a
hard steel stirrup, with the baron round his
farms, and had held many a long conversation
with him on matters of agriculture and politics.
Madame, the "Hausfirüe," as the domestics
called her, had given me a number of Danish
recipes, and I am afraid to say how many
balsams, essences, and pots of preserve, to be
sent to my married sisters in England. I had
helped Eskil with his mathematics, and Kalf
with his English grammar, and Christina had read
to me, and with me, and had taught me dominoes,
and had learned chess from me, and had been my
most thoughtful and kind nurse in those weary
hours when pain was racking me. She was too
fair, and good, and charming, that golden-haired
Danish maiden, not to win an unoccupied heart
like mine; but I did not as yet own to myself
that I loved her. Her society was very dear to
me, and I shut my eyes to the future, and the
parting that must come with it.

And now a word as to Baron Dyring, whom
I understood better than on the first evening
of our acquaintance. First, as to his position.
This was one that I cannot easily describe.
If I called him a gentleman farmer, a phrase to