ture--In the cemetery--A labour of love--A frog
concert--Excursion to Monte Carlo--Lovely coast scenery--Castle of Monaco
--The sombre Olive--The exodus of the Caterpillars.

In travelling from Nice to Mentone you have to pass through some of the
most lovely and enchanting scenery in the world.

The tiny principality of Monaco is indeed a little Paradise; but, alas!
Paradise _after the fall_, for does it not include that awful gaming
pandemonium, Monte Carlo? It is sad to think that the choicest spot on
this fair earth should be selected by sinful men for their evil
purposes. Here, amid all that is beautiful and captivating in nature, is
a pit dug for the unwary, the innocent, and the weak; and, alas! too
many succumb to the fatal allurements prepared for their ruin and
destruction.

As we passed Monte Carlo, we saw some of the _shady fraternity_ I
mentioned as having observed at the Nice station, on one of the heights
above the town, overlooking a grassy enclosure. They were
characteristically engaged in slaughtering tame pigeons, by way of a
manly recreation and noble sport!

We arrived at Mentone in the evening, about seven o'clock. It is a
quiet, pretty little town something like Cannes. As usual, there were a
legion of hotel omnibuses, with their liveried porters, the name of the
hotel they belonged to on their cap, and each accurately measuring the
length of your purse. Fortunate the traveller who has already determined
on the hotel he intends to patronize! We had selected the Hotel des
Isles Britanniques. Here we had a small but handsomely furnished
apartment on the third floor, commanding a charming view of the sea from
its French windows, and we were soon sitting down to our quiet little
dinner.

Everything at this hotel was comfortable and satisfactory. Cleanliness
and courtesy were predominant, and I should think altogether it was one
of the best conducted hotels on the Riviera. Only one little drawback
lay in the fact that the reading-room opened into the ladies'
drawing-room, and the almost incessant pianoforte-playing made it
impossible to read with any real enjoyment. Indeed, who _could_ sit down
selfishly to reading, even one's favourite newspaper, with the momentary
expectation of a loving wife or daughter strolling in from her music,
for a little chat?

A more serious defect, however, in these Riviera hotels, perfect as
they are otherwise in all their appointments, lies in the fact that
there