a different opinion.  At the corner of one of the streets we came upon a team drawing a long cart, which we unanimously christened the “height of absurdity.”  A pair of 17-hand horses were in the shafts, and in front, attached as a leader, was the smallest of donkeys.  Miss Blunt thought it the smallest donkey in the world; but we have met with so many lately in the Pyrenees which were in turn, in her opinion, the smallest she had ever seen, that by this time the smallest donkey might be but little bigger than a rat; this, however, was not the case, as Mr. Sydney will attest.

The valley grew more lovely as we progressed, with the winding Neez stream running with merry music beside the road, and although Mrs. Blunt did not indulge—­as on the way to Cauterets—­in any raptures of her own, she was quite willing to agree with the rest that the frequent resemblance of the scenery to many of the lovely bits we have in Wales was most pleasantly apparent.

Shortly before reaching the blanched region of the lime-works (71/2 miles), we caught a momentary glimpse of the Pic du Midi d’Ossau (9466 ft.), on which the summer sun had of late so relentlessly played, that the snowy crown had quite disappeared.  Rebenac (93/4 miles) was reached at 8.40, and there we crossed the Neez by a stone bridge, the stream then running on our right, and continuing thus for three kilometres farther (11 miles from Pau), when it issues from the Grotto du Neez—­only a few yards from the road.  From this grotto a great part of the torrent is diverted, being utilised to supply Pau with its pure and sparkling fluid.  Half-an-hour after leaving Rebenac we passed through the village of Sevignac, (123/4 miles), and had a splendid view of the Val d’Ossau from the bridge which overlooks Arudy, and which is overlooked in turn by a fine and well-situated house.

We had barely time to appreciate the curious rocks which abound near Arudy, when we passed the road leading off through that town to Oloron, and came in sight of a merry group of washerwomen, whose enormous umbrellas—­being unnecessary, since it was perfectly fine—­were open in a row, and with their shades of magenta, green, and blue, without mentioning sundry patches of other shades, made a wonderful contrast to the green bushes fringing the river.

At 9.40 we entered Louvie Juzon (16 miles), with its old church and curious belfry-tower, and its “mairie” turned into a school—­for the nonce at least; and passing the latter, we crossed the fine bridge over the Gave d’Ossau, on the other side of which the Oloron road leads off through Izeste to the right, and the courtyard of the Hotel des Pyrenees bids us enter and rest.