ment assigned me. There, sure enough, were two sizable portmanteaus. Strong they were, but travel-stained, and bearing those unmistakable marks by which we recognize the veterans of their kind that have passed through the hands and seen the cities of many-languaged men. Upon the sides was marked, in the plain lettering of the period, the name,—
ISMAR THIUSEN,
under which I had now been introduced to a number of persons. That might pass; but to take possession of a stranger's baggage, as well as of his name, was too much. When, therefore, Utis, seeing me stand gazing stupidly at the trunks, suggested my opening them in order to dress for dinner, I decidedly objected.
"This baggage does not belong to me. Nor, if it did," I added, as a clincher, "have I the means of opening those strong locks."
"Perhaps you will find the means in there," said Utis, smiling as if at my forgetfulness, and pointing to a pocket in my tunic.
It was almost without surprise that I actually did produce a pocket-book from that hitherto unnoticed receptacle. This pocket-book contained, among many other things, a key of peculiar form; and this key, upon trial, was found to open the trunk. My host, seeing me still hesitate, unpacked some of the clothing, shook it out, and placed it over the back of a chair, saying as he did so,—
"As there are no servants, every family now does its own work, each member, from infancy, learning to take a due share. This is the suit you will put on after bathing," he continued, while he laid out some underclothing,
