Passing some ruined houses and fertile slopes in our descent, we soon obtained a fine view up both ends of the Aran valley, with the diminutive Garonne winding through, and Bosost snugly situated on the slopes of a hill round a bend in the road.  The sun was pouring down in all his midday strength as we passed the roadside chapel of St. Antoine and entered the antiquated little village of Bosost, stopping at the Fonda de Espana for lunch.

This inn, from the road, was as much unlike an inn as anything we ever saw, and its ways and passages were somewhat unique; but upstairs there was a large room with a wide terrace facing the river, which only wanted an awning over to be rendered delicious.  We were unfortunately too early in the season for this luxury, so had to content ourselves with lunching in the room, with wide-opened doors.  When the provisions were spread out, in rushed the guide with an official document, and a franc to pay for having invaded Spain.  We gave him the money, and asked to taste some honest country wine, which resulted in the domestic bringing us something rather strong, like new port, which did not go badly with water.

After the repast had passed pleasantly, we strolled out into the village, Miss Blunt being equipped with the requisites for a brilliant sketch.  Unhappily, the subject was not easy to find, though we marched through most of the streets; but having visited the ancient church—­with its chime of bells, like many others in Spain, arranged on a wheel—­we found a spot by the side of a huge elm from which there was a good view of the sacred edifice.  But it was a case of sketching under difficulties, as the whole or at least the greater part of the village children crowded round us, some carrying smaller children in their arms, some playing with flowers, others cutting bits of wood, and one and all managing to do their utmost to bother poor Miss Blunt.  She accordingly finished the sketch as quickly as possible, and we all returned to the hotel to keep out of the oppressive heat.

At three o’clock we started homewards, going rather faster than when we came.  Alternate clouds and sunshine overhead, the lights and shadows over the trees, the fields—­radiant with gentians, oxslips, columbine, polygaloe, and asphodel—­losing none of their charm.

At the Spanish custom-house we delivered up our passport, for which we had paid the franc, and then wound over the Portillon and gently back to our hotel, not arriving too late for the cup that soothes and cheers, but never cheers too loudly.

The morrow was to see us leaving Luchon—­the charming, the beautiful—­and all of us had a similar feeling, viz., that we might soon come and see the “Pearl of the Pyrenees” again.

It was true that we had missed all the noise and excitement which comes with the summer; that we had missed the troops of Pau-ites wearing out such of their “robes” as the heat would allow, and the throngs of gay Spaniards; that we had missed the crowds of invalids, the bands of music, and the worst specimens of the travelling world, “French tourists.”  But it was a truth for which we were very grateful, and we would certainly advise future visitors to take Luchon in the spring, and leave it before the heat and bustle of the season mar its peace, and the summer’s sun melts the snowy splendour of the surrounding heights.