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A telegram arrived from Oswald to-day, saying he was not coming till the middle of August: Konigsee, Watzmann, glorious tramp. Letter follows. Father did not say much, but I fancy he's very much annoyed. Especially just now, after poor Mother's death, Oswald might just as well come home. Last year he was so long away after matriculation, quite alone, and now it's the same this year.
We made many excursions to Berchtesgaden, where King Louis and his court were then living, and went to the upper end of the Königsee. I have repeatedly been at sea in very stormy weather without the smallest idea of fear; but the black, deep water of this lake, under the shadow of the precipitous mountains, made a disagreeable impression on me.
In the months that followed, Erica loved just to shut her eyes and forget a sad or stormy present, to call up once more the remembrance of that time. To the minutest details she always remembered it. The start in the early morning, which had seemed cloudy and unpromising, the long, beautiful drive to Berchtesgaden, and on beyond to the Konigsee.
We were seeing Germany in the most leisurely fashion, courting the unexpected and letting things happen to us. On the day of which I write we spent the early morning on the Königsee, in Bavaria, the loveliest sheet of water in Germany, vying in grandeur with any Swiss or Italian lake.
"In ten minutes," he said with a delighted grin. And in another ten minutes we were off, and Salzburg was removed another twenty-four hours from us. But after the Achensee, the Königsee was something of an anticlimax, although the natives were perfectly satisfactory, and not an English word was spoken outside of our party.
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