again near the foot of the chimney; and thus we escaped with only a few slight bruises. One shudders to think what would have happened if the ledge had fallen when Jones and my brother were on it. It may be of interest to say here that during the whole of our climbs with Jones, this was the only approach to an accident we had, and under his leadership the possibility of anything going wrong seemed, and always was, very remote indeed. After this we were not long in joining the other two at the top. By this time it was nearly dark and still raining heavily, and on the crest of the chimney we were faced by a bitterly cold wind. Jones, who had been exposed to this during the time we were ascending, was shaking with cold, and he shouted through the storm--‘Hurry up! Coil the rope and then we’ll do a sprint.’ On looking round we found that he had gone. We finished coiling the rope and hurried up to where he had been, but could not see him anywhere. We shouted again and again, but got no answer. After peering about and shouting several times we came to a standstill. ‘Is he subject to fits?’ inquired my father in a most doleful tone of voice. We had never heard of anything of the sort, so set off down the side of the crags in the hope of finding him awaiting us below. A miserable hour was spent in walking about the bottom of the crags calling his name; but the whistling of the wind in the rocks above, and the swishing of the rain were the only answers we got; so we set off down the fell-side, and, after floundering about in the dark, over the stone-walls and through the river, we found ourselves at last on the main road to Keswick. We were very anxious to know what had become of Jones, so hastened home, where we found him, ‘dressed up in all his best,’ toasting his feet in front of a comfortable fire. ‘Where have you been?’ ‘Dinner has been waiting an hour,’ and so on, were the thanks we got for our weary hunt among the crags for him, and the query of my father’s about his taking ‘fits’ became one of his favourite jokes. After proposing the ‘sprint’ to us he had run round a projecting shoulder of rock to leeward, and started off to Keswick over the moor, by the route we had taken earlier in the day. We had expected him to go down to the Shoulthwaite Valley, and in this way had missed him. So finished one of the most exciting days we ever spent with Owen Glynne Jones; and its events are indelibly stamped on my memory. But, full of incident as the day had been, my pleasantest recollection is of the evening that followed; when, by the fire and over our pipes, we fought old battles over again, recalling to life happy days and exciting moments on the fells, ending with the songs and glees Jones loved so well to sing, and across the space of years, taking us back into the ‘dear, dead days,’ will come into our ‘mind’s eye’ the picture of him kneeling by the piano, singing with the keen enthusiasm which characterized everything he did, his favourite hymn--