For even Armine had been invigorated with a
sudden overflow of animal health and energy, which made him far more
enterprising and less contemplative than he had ever been before.
They four had walked up the mountain after breakfast from Kandersteg,
bringing their bags for a couple of nights, the boys being anxious to
go up the Altels the next day, as their time was nearly over and they
were to be in school in ten days' time again. After luncheon and a
good rest on the wooden bench outside the door, they began to stroll
towards the Daubensee, along a path between desolate boulders,
without vegetation, except a small kind of monkshood.
"I call this dreary," said the mother. "We don't seem to get a bit
nearer the lake. I shall go home and write to Babie."
"I'll come back with you," said Johnny. "My mother will be looking
for a letter."
"Not giving in already, Johnny," said Armine. "I can tell you I mean
to get to the lake."
"The Friar is the slave of his note-book," said Jock. "When are we
to have it-—'Crags and Cousins,' or 'From Measles to Mountains'?"
"I don't want to forget everything," said Johnny, with true Kencroft
doggedness.
"Do you expect ever to look at that precious diurnal again?"
"He will leave it as an heirloom to his grandchildren!"
"And they will say how slow people were in the nineteenth century.
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