“Then leave her at home,” said Bernardine cheerily.

And so they settled it.

In less than a quarter of an hour they had started; and Bernardine leaned luxuriously back to enjoy to the full her first sledge-drive.

It was all new to her:  the swift passing through the crisp air without any sensation of motion; the sleepy tinkling of the bells on the horses’ heads; the noiseless cutting through of the snow-path.

All these weeks she had known nothing of the country, and now she found herself in the snow fairy-land of which the Disagreeable Man had often spoken to her.  Around, vast plains of untouched snow, whiter than any dream of whiteness, jewelled by the sunshine with priceless diamonds, numberless as the sands of the sea.  The great pines bearing their burden 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 now?  I feel rather lonely.”

This was said in such a pathetic, aggrieved tone, that Bernardine laughed and looked at her companion.  His face wore an unusually bright expression.  He was evidently out to enjoy himself.

“You talk,” she said; “and tell me all about the country.”

And he told her what he knew, and, amongst other things, about the avalanches.  He was able to point out where some had fallen the previous year.  He stopped in the middle of his conversation to tell her to put up her umbrella.

“I can’t trouble to hold it for you,” he said; “but I don’t mind opening it.  The sun is blazing to-day, and you will get your eyes bad if you are not careful.  That would be a pity, for you seem to me rather better lately.”