Pardon me, I have not introduced
you. This is my cousin, Miss Oddson, and this
is my miraculous friend, the world-renowned
author, vagrant, and naturalist, Mr. Marcus Strand."
Strand stepped forward, made a deep but
somewhat awkward bow, and was dimly aware
that a small soft hand was extended to him,
and, in the next moment, was enclosed in his
own broad and voluminous palm. He grasped
it firmly, and, in one of those profound abstractions
into which he was apt to fall when under
the sway of a strong impression, pressed it with
increasing cordiality, while he endeavored to
find fitting answers to Arnfinn's multifarious
questions.
"To tell the truth, Vording," he said, in a
deep, full-ringing bass, "I didn't know that
these were your cousin's barns--I mean that
your uncle"--giving the unhappy hand an emphatic
shake--"inhabited these barns."
"No, thank heaven, we are not quite reduced
to that," cried Arnfinn, gayly; "we still boast a
parsonage, as you will presently discover, and a
very bright and cozy one, to boot. But, whatever
you do, have the goodness to release
Augusta's hand. Don't you see how desperately
she is struggling, poor thing?"
Strand dropped the hand as if it had been a
hot coal, blushed to the edge of his hair, and
made another profound reverence. He was a
tall, huge-limbed youth, with a frame of
gigantic mold, and a large, blonde, shaggy head,
like that of some good-natured antediluvian
animal, which might feel the disadvantages of
its size amid the puny beings of this later stage
of creation.
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