124 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
where I was to sleep. Haying watched her deposit,—-not 
without misgivings, for I knew it was expected both 
should be disposed of before morning,—the skier by my 
bedside, and the brandy-bottle under the pillow, I was 
preparing to make her a polite bow, and to wish her 
a very good night, when she advanced towards me, 
and with a winning grace difficult to resist, insisted 
upon helping me off with my coat, and then,—pro¬ 
ceeding to extremities,—with my shoes and stockings. 
At this most critical part of the proceedings, I naturally 
imagined her share of the performance would conclude, 
and that I should at last be restored to that privacy 
which at such seasons is generally considered appro¬ 
priate. Not a bit of it. Before I knew where I was, I 
found myself sitting on a chair, in my shirt, trowserless, 
while my fair tirewoman was engaged in neatly folding 
up the ravished garments on a neighbouring chair. She 
then, in the most simple maimer in the world, helped 
me into bed, tucked me up, and having said a quantity 
of pretty things in Icelandic, gave me a hearty kiss and 
departed. If,” he added, “ you see anything remark¬ 
able in my appearance, it is probably because— 
