e had the misfortune to fall and severely sprain his knee. He
became laid up for a time, and when able to move, he set out for his
mother's home at Geneva, in the hope of recovering health and
strength; for his digestive powers were also by this time seriously
injured. When he went away, the people of the valleys felt as if they
should never see him more; and their sorrow at his departure was
heart-rending. After trying the baths of Plombieres without effect, he
proceeded onwards to Geneva, which he reached only to die; and thus
this good and noble soldier--one of the bravest of earth's
heroes--passed away to his eternal reward at the early age of
thirty-one.

* * * * *

The valley of Fressinieres--the principle scene of Neff's
labours--joins the valley of the Durance nearly opposite the little
hamlet of La Roche. There we leave the high road from Briancon to Fort
Dauphin, and crossing the river by a timber bridge, ascend the steep
mountain-side by a mule path, in order to reach the entrance to the
valley of Fressinieres, the level of which is high above that of the
Durance. Not many years since, the higher valley could only be
approached from this point by a very difficult mountain-path amidst
rocks and stones, called the Ladder, or Pas de l'Echelle. It was
dangerous at all times, and quite impassable in winter. The mule-path
which has lately been made, though steep, is comparatively easy.

What the old path was, and what were the discomforts of travelling
through this district in Neff's time, may be appreciated on a perusal
of the narrative of the young pastor Bost, who in 1840 determined to
make a sort of pilgrimage to the scenes of his friend's labours some
seventeen years before. M. Bost, however, rather exaggerates the
difficulties and discomforts of the valleys than otherwise. He saw no
beauty nor grandeur in the scenery, only "horrible mountains in a
state of dissolution" and constantly ready to fall upon the heads of
massing travellers. He had no eyes for the picturesque though gloomy
lake of La Roche, but saw only the miserable hamlet itself. He slept
in the dismal little inn, as doubtless Neff had often done before, and
was horrified by the multitudinous companions that shared his bed;
and, tumbling out, he spent the rest of the night on the floor. The
food was still worse--cold _cafe noir_, and bread eighteen months old,
soaked in water before it could be eaten. His breakfas