I frequently examined the colour of the snow: though fresh, its blue tint was by no means so pronounced as I have seen it on other occasions; still it was beautiful. The colour is, no doubt, due to the optical reverberations which occur within a fissure or cavity formed in the snow. The light is sent from side to side, each time plunging a little way into the mass; and being ejected from it by reflection, it thus undergoes a sifting process, and finally reaches the eye as blue light. The presence of any object which cuts off this cross-fire of the light destroys the colour. I made conical apertures in the snow, in some cases three feet deep, a foot wide at the mouth, and tapering down to the width of my baton. When the latter was placed along the axis of such a cone, the blue light which had previously filled the cavity disappeared; on the withdrawal of the baton it was followed by the light, and thus by moving the staff up and down its motions were followed by the alternate appearance and extinction of the light. I have said that the holes made in the snow seemed filled with a blue light, and it certainly appeared as if the air contained in the cavities had itself been coloured, and thereby rendered visible, the vision plunging into it as into a blue medium. Another fact is perhaps worth notice: snow rarely lies so smooth as not to present little asperities at its surface; little ridges or hillocks, with little hollows between them. Such small hollows resemble, in some degree, the cavities which I made in the snow, and from them, in the present instance, a delicate light was sent to the eye, faintly tinted with the pure blue of the snow-crystals. In comparison with the spots thus illuminated, the little protuberances were gray. The portions most exposed to the light seemed least illuminated, and their defect in this respect made them appear as if a light-brown dust had been strewn over them. [Sidenote: THE MONTANVERT IN WINTER. 1859.] After five hours and a half of hard work we reached the Montanvert. I had often seen it with pleasure. Often, having spent the day alone amid the _seracs_ of the Col du Geant, on turning the promontory of Trelaporte on my way home, the sight of the little mansion has gladdened me, and given me vigour to scamper down the glacier, knowing that pleasant faces and wholesome fare were awaiting me. This day, also, the sight of it was most welcome, despite its desolation. The wind had swept round the auberge, and carried away its snow-buttresses, piling the mass thus displaced against the adjacent sheds, to the roofs of which one might step from the surface of the snow. The floor of the little chateau in which I lodged in 1857 was covered with snow, and on it were the fresh footmarks of a little animal--a marmot might have made such marks, had not the marmots been all asleep--what the creature was I do not know. [Sidenote: CRYSTAL CURTAIN. 1859.]