Suspense, Volume I by Henry Seton Merriman

The two fishermen went off in opposite directions again the next day, the Admiral taking the gig and sailing down the fjord to the distant river, while Trist went ashore in Nielsen's boat to fish the stream that ran past the little mountain homestead.

It was a dull foreboding day; for the clouds had fallen over the summits and all was gray. The gorges were darksome, and over everything there seemed to have come a sudden gloomy melancholy. Without actually raining, the gray mist overhead dissolved softly into a falling dampness which was more subtly penetrating than driving rain itself. The sea was of a dull gray, and looked muddy. Those Arctic fjords can make a wondrous show when the sun shines, and fleecy white clouds nestle upon the shoulders of the grim mountains, but when a gray pall hangs motionless one thousand feet above the sea, there is no more dismal prospect on earth. It seems as if the rain would softly fall for ever and a day -- as if nothing could ever brush aside the heavy vaporous veil, and let the gay blue sky peep through again.