"His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. There was no railway beyond Frutigen in those days; they sent their baggage by post to Kandersteg, and walked along the mule path to the left of the stream to that queer hollow among the precipices, Blau See, where the petrifying branches of trees lie in the blue deeps of an icy lake, and pine-trees clamber among gigantic boulders. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast.
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