e blew the down from the dried dandelions we had pulled
along the way, and questioned if, in our far-off homes, our mothers
wanted us!

It seemed as though we could descend no farther; and yet, after sweeping
through a valley, a sudden turn would disclose another, far below, to
which this was as a mountain. So down we sped the whole day long; once
by a frightfully-narrow zigzag road, the worst by far of any we had
seen; passing still through the villages so charming in the distance,
but dirty, and full of odors by no means pleasing, as we drew near. At
night we rattled into the paved square before the inn at Brieg, just as
the first drops of a coming shower wet its stones.

This was evidently something more than a village. The houses were
plastered, instead of being of wood with a rich, burnt-sienna color,
like those we had seen along the road through the day. They were thickly
clustered together, and from their midst rose the four turrets of a
chateau. Our inn was a delightfully-dingy old place. It had been an
Ursuline convent, and abounded in queer, dark passages, rough stone
stairways, and old wooden galleries overlooking the square. One of our
rooms had been a part of the convent chapel, and was still lighted by a
window just beneath the groined roof. Here we braided our hair, and
knotted our ribbons, and dreamed, in the twilight that followed the
rain, of the hopeless ones who had sought comfort in other days within
these walls, and fell asleep at last, knowing full well that the fringe
of many an old prayer was still caught and held in the arches high over
our heads. We walked up through the town the next morning, to the
beginning of the Simplon Pass. Somewhere in the narrow streets we passed
the old chateau, and pressed our faces against the bars of a gate, in
order to gain some idea as to the domestic economy of the family which
had bestowed upon Brieg its air of importance. But the chateau had
degenerated into a brewery, and the court-yard was filled with old
carts, clumsy and broken.

Farther up the hill the door of a little chapel stood invitingly open,
waiting for stray worshippers, or a chance-burdened heart (for even so
far away as Brieg, hearts do grow heavy, I doubt not). Something in its
narrow, whitewashed poverty touched our sympathies. It is rare indeed in
these countries to find a chapel without at least some votive offering
to make it beautiful in the eyes of the simple people: here was only a
c