a roaring river, we have a great mountain
range on either side, and pass through a lofty narrow gorge. Looking
back, I could scarcely discern the cleft in the rocky barrier through
which we had come.

And now we see a pretty homely scene among these snow-clad hills. At St.
Jean de Maurienne, close to the railway, was a road leading to the
valley down which troops of school-children tripped merrily along, led
by Sisters of Mercy in their quaint, white winged caps, the healthy,
joyous faces of the little ones evidencing to the kindness and care of
these good women. What indeed would the inhabitants of these wintry
mountain regions, so far from the civilization of great cities, do
without their clergy, and the noble sisterhood who devote themselves to
a life of usefulness and charity?

Later on we passed through another rocky defile, where we saw a little
octagonal chapel perched upon a hilly promontory, overlooking a bridge
across the river. Here the great mountain peaks were quite lost in the
clouds, and the ruggedness of the scenery was grand in the extreme. Some
of the immense pinnacles and jutting rocks were most fantastically
shaped, like the residence of some fabled giant, in contrast to the
little ruined castles we frequently saw, adding a touch of old-world
romance to the landscape:

"The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been
In mockery of man's art."

The valley between the mountains now widens, showing in the distance
fertile plains, and now and then a picturesque little village, and other
signs of human life and energy. Then again the scenery varies,
magnificent snow-clad mountain peaks rising some 7000 or 8000 feet above
us. Mont Blanc lies behind this range to the right, but is lost in the
clouds--we making our way down to the valley of the Rhone, alone with
the rushing stream, nothing else disturbing the silence of the sublime
grandeur around.

Almost suddenly we descend to Epierre, where there is a pretty little
iron bridge spanning the foaming river. Here the hillsides slope down
gradually more and more, and every inch of ground is thriftily
cultivated, the industry of the French far exceeding that of the
Italians, who are for the most part a careless, easy-going race of
beings. At Acquebelle we stopped. The marshes in the neighbourhood
render it very unhealthy. At Mont Melian the route lies through fertile
plains, the snowy Alps being now almost left behind. The landscape
towards Cham