September 16th.--The wind has veered round to the north during
the night, and the ice shows some symptoms of opening out. The men
are in a good humour in spite of the short allowance upon which
they have been placed. Steam is kept up in the engine-room, that
there may be no delay should an opportunity for escape present
itself. The Captain is in exuberant spirits, though he still
retains that wild "fey" expression which I have already remarked
upon. This burst of cheerfulness puzzles me more than his former
gloom. I cannot understand it. I think I mentioned in an
early part of this journal that one of his oddities is that he
never permits any person to enter his cabin, but insists upon
making his own bed, such as it is, and performing every other
office for himself. To my surprise he handed me the key to-day and
requested me to go down there and take the time by his chronometer
while he measured the altitude of the sun at noon. It is a bare
little room, containing a washing-stand and a few books, but little
else in the way of luxury, except some pictures upon the walls.
The majority of these are small cheap oleographs, but there was one
water-colour sketch of the head of a young lady which arrested my
attention. It was evidently a portrait, and not one of those fancy
types of female beauty which sailors particularly affect. No
artist could have evolved from his own mind such a curious mixture
of character and weakness. The languid, dreamy eyes, with their
drooping lashes, and the broad, low brow, unruffled by thought or
care, were in strong contrast with the clean-cut, prominent jaw,
and the resolute set of the lower lip. Underneath it in one of the
corners was written, "M. B., aet. 19." That any one in the short
space of nineteen years of existence could develop such strength of
will as was stamped upon her face seemed to me at the time to be