of snow patiently; others, less patient, having shaken themselves free
from what the heavens had sent them to bear. And now the streams,
flowing on reluctantly over ice-coated rocks, and the ice cathedrals
formed by the icicles between the rocks.

And always the same silence, save for the tinkling of the horses' bells.

On the heights the quaint chalets, some merely huts for storing wood; on
others, farms, or the homes of peasants; some dark brown, almost black,
betraying their age; others of a paler hue, showing that the sun had not
yet mellowed them into a deep rich colour. And on all alike, the fringe
of icicles. A wonderful white world.

It was a long time before Bernardine even wished to speak. This
beautiful whiteness may become monotonous after a time, but there is
something very awe-inspiring about it, something which catches the soul
and holds it.

The Disagreeable Man sat quietly by her side. Once or twice he bent
forward to protect the camera when the sledge gave a lurch.

After some time they met a procession of sledges laden with timber;
and August, the driver, and Robert Allitsen exchanged some fun and
merriment with the drivers in their quaint blue smocks. The noise of
the conversation, and the excitement of getting past the sledges,
brought Bernardine back to speech again.

"I have never before enjoyed anything so much," she said.

"So you have found your tongue," he said. "Do you mind talking a little