Yesterday we had a most interesting excursion to see an old fortified mediæval cathedral town. You would have enjoyed it. It was quaint and picturesque beyond measure. Evidently, now, cathedral and town are in a backwater--the flood of life has long gone past them. The church, however, contains magnificent wood-carving of the 13th century. It was the kind of town of which one sometimes dreams--hardly a town, but a sleepy village perched on a high rock with a wide outlook over the lowlands, and a grand view of the snow-capped mountains to the south. I saw one old house--or the top of it, rather--was for sale. It had quaint dormer windows and corbel gables, and was shut off from the narrow street by a high gate of weather-worn carved oak, hundreds of years old. I was tempted to buy it--when you and I tired of the world we could retreat to the seclusion of that sleepy old village, and dream the days away. The sun was as usual blazing from a cloudless sky, and as I leaned over the old battlements of the wall I could see that the wall from top to base was aflare with wallflowers and other plants, while mosses, ferns, and lichens were everywhere, every stone encrusted with moss and every crevice of the masonry stocked with flowers, etc. In the same letter he says:-- Walking in the scorching heat is most fatiguing. I had over twenty miles of such walking the other day, and will not repeat the experience. All the same I delight in the blaze--the heat and lightness seem to penetrate your skin and work their way to your very vitals. How one’s blood courses! and how the old youthful feelings come back! Another passage from a later letter, written from Argelès, may be quoted, less for its description than for the light it casts upon the character of its author. It may be noted that by this time he was the father of the much longed-for “wee lassie,” who had been born a few years before. He says:-- The wee lassies are most delightful to look at. Many of them, as I have already mentioned, are little beauties. Such sweet, demure, kissable wee things they are, with their hair neatly done up, and hanging down in a plait behind. They are all bare-headed and all are dark. Brown to black hair, with soft liquid brown eyes, rich red lips, and a rosy flush in their tawny faces.... In years to come I will often dream of the bonny wee toddlers I stopped on the road to pet and fondle in these beautiful valleys. R. was as much struck as I with the children. But as I have my own wee lassie in my thoughts, he probably did not feel his heart in his mouth and his eyes water as the wee ones passed us on the road. To these letters, written during the trip, may be added some extracts from one written to a member of the family circle after his return home. On 29th May he writes from Edinburgh:--