A peculiarly fragrant smell like
exceedingly delicate Russian leather hangs round the place, or did that
afternoon. It was, I suppose, the hot sun bringing out the scent of some
hidden herb, and it would not always be there; but I like to think of
the beautiful little lake as for ever fragrant, all the year round lying
alone and sweet-smelling and enchanted, tucked away in the bosom of the
solitary hills.

When the traveller has spent some time lying on the moss with his
poet--and he should lie there long enough for his soul to grow as quiet
and clear as the water, and the poet, I think, should be Milton--he can
go back to the cross-roads, five minutes' walk over beech leaves, and so
to Kiekoewer, about half a mile farther on. The contrast between the
Schwarze See and Kiekoewer is striking. Coming from that sheltered place
of suspended breath you climb up a steep hill and find yourself suddenly
on the edge of high cliffs where the air is always moving and the wind
blows freshly on to you across the bay. Far down below, the blue water
heaves and glitters. In the distance lies the headland beyond Sassnitz,
hazy in the afternoon light. The beech trees, motionless round the lake,
here keep up a ceaseless rustle. You who have been so hot all day find
you are growing almost too cool.

'_Sie ist schoen, unsere Ostsee, was?_' said a hearty male voice behind
us.

We were all three leaning against the wooden rail put up for our
protection on the edge of the cliff. A few yards off is a shed where a
waiter, battered by the sea breezes he is forced daily to endure,
supplies the thirsty with beer and coffee. The hearty owner of the
voice, brown with the sun, damp and jolly with exercise and
beer-drinking, stood looking over Mrs. Harvey-Browne's shoulder at the
view with an air of proud proprietorship, his hands in his pockets, his
legs wide apart, his cap pushed well off an extremely heated brow.

He addressed this remark to Mrs. Harvey-Browne, to whom, I suppose, she
being a matron of years and patent sobriety, he thought cheery remarks
might safely be addressed. But if there was a thing the bishop's wife
disliked it was a cheery stranger. The pedagogue that morning, so
artlessly interested in her conversation with me as to forget he had not
met her before, had manifestly revolted her. I myself the previous
evening, though not cheery still a stranger, had been objectionable to
her. How much more offensive, then, was a warm man