Jack's former attempt to pass up the chimney, it may be remembered, was obstructed by an iron bar. "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising. ’ ‘For shame, Hilary,’ admonished his fiancée, casting a pitying glance at the refugees. She lost it in the Mint. He still watched her and questioned her. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside.
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