open.  Its very rusticity and simplicity gave it a religious air which to us so few Roman Catholic edifices seem to possess.  The badly-spelt and feebly-worded address to the Pope, to which he has affixed his signature, that hangs in a frame near the door, we did not consider much of an attraction, though to the members of the little congregation it would doubtless be a very holy relic.  Forsaking this peaceful retreat, we climbed up the ascent behind, within view of the statue of the Virgin, but soon descended again, as the sun was at that time particularly “baking,” and we were not doughty enough to pretend to resist it.  After a cool spell near the chapel-door, watching the “painted ladies” [Footnote:  Butterflies, of course!] playing with the lilac blossoms, we trudged slowly back again.

One of the pleasantest as well as most interesting of our trips in the Pyrenees was from Luchon to the little Spanish village of Bosost, and as it is one of the principal pillars that uphold the chief title of this volume, it deserves a detailed mention.

This time the favourite hour of ten was not early enough for starting, so we were on horseback by 9.15, going very leisurely, being quite undesirous to force the pace, as the day was warm even at that hour.

Up the Rue d’Espagne for a short distance beyond the Hotel Richelieu (which hotel, from all we have heard, though large, is not too moderate nor owned by too polite a proprietor), and then we took the turning to the left, which (as the signboard tells) leads to St. Mamet.  Without waiting to enter the old church to see its frescoes, we pursued the road branching off to the right, which presently left the Orphanage behind in the same direction.  A few minutes later we had passed the frontier (French) custom station, and leaving the isolated Castelvieil (2514 ft.) for a short time on our right, and later in our rear, we bore up the Vallee de Burbe.  We had only progressed a short distance when a huge rock was visible in the centre of the road, evidently a very recent gift from the adjacent height.  Our horses having been so little used, were very fresh and rather fond of shying, and our guide’s, which was an Arab, not only shied at the impediment, but wheeled round with the intention of going homewards.  As we managed to make our own, however, pass quietly, the obstreperous one, after a brief struggle, was induced to follow their example.  A little further on, we met a fine team of Spanish mules in their full picturesque trappings and bells.  The two men in charge of them were dressed a little untidily, but their attire was equally picturesque, the coloured waistband, turban, and knee-breeches producing a very bright effect.

The bright yellow-green of the beeches, mingling with the dark and gloomy olive shade of the firs; here and there fields laden with the blue columbine and the “overrated” asphodel; the boulder-strewn slopes on our left, and the snow-ridges on the right; and the strong, fresh, and foaming cascade of Sidonie tumbling down beside us, made a very delicious contemplation as we went on our way.