eam of nothing else in my sleep. I had chicken nightmares.
The absurd creatures never would realise when they were well off, but
even in the midst of laying a most important egg on one side of the
road, our automobile had only to come whizzing along to convince them
that salvation depended on getting across to the other. This year they
seem to have formed a sort of Chicken Club, a league of defence
against motors, and to have started a propaganda."

My imagination tricked me, or this theory of Molly's evoked a faint
sound of stifled mirth in the heart of the mysterious mushroom. In
haste I turned away, lest I should be suspected of regarding it, and
Jack began to pump my memory mercilessly for what it might retain of
his driving lessons. Luckily, I had forgotten nothing, and I was able
to demonstrate my knowledge by pointing to the various parts of the
machine with each glib reference I made.

By-and-bye, we came to a place where a grotto was "much recommended";
but swallows, southward bound, do not stop in their flight for
grottos. We darted by, thundered through the humming darkness of
Napoleon's tunnel, and flashed out into a startling landscape, as
sensational as the country of the "Delectable Mountains" in "Pilgrim's
Progress." The cup-like valley was ringed in by mountains of
astonishing shapes; it was nature posing for a picture by John Martin.
In the fields were dotted characteristic Dauphine houses, little elfin
things with overhanging roofs like caps tied under their chins.

Soon, we raced into the main street of tiny Les Echelles, whence, in
the good old days, fair Princess Beatrice of Savoie went away to wed
with the famed Raymond of Provence. We whisked through the village,
and down the valley to St. Laurens du Pont, and the entrance to that
great rift between mountains which leads to the monastery of the
Grande Chartreuse.

As we plunged into the narrow jaws of the superb ravine, a wave of
regret for the Boy swept over me. He and I had talked of this day--the
day we should see the deserted monastery hidden among its mountains;
now it had come, and we were parted.

The society of Jack and Molly and the motor car could make up for many
things, but it could not stifle longings for the Little Pal. Besides,
magnificent as was Mercedes (the Dragon, not the Mushroom) I felt that
Finois and Fanny-anny would have been more in keeping with the place.
I was too dispirited to care whether or no my eyes were fille