prised that we feel the cold so little, buried up
as we are. " That is why," my grandfather
observed, " the young wheat gets through the
winter so well." We will do the same. We
will lie snug and close all the winter, and in
spring we will put our heads out of the window.
But what a wearisome time we have to get
through till then; and God grant that that may
be all we have to suffer!

To make up for the wood we have a heap of
fir-cones, which I partly collected myself, to
burn at the village. It is a mere chance they
were not taken there. And in short, if we are
driven to it, we shall not hesitate to burn the
hay-racks and the mangers in the stable. When
it becomes a question of life and death, we must
not look too closely at trifles; we shall be
acting like the navigators who cast their cargoes
into the sea.

Our people had already in part unfurnished
the chalet. What we regret the least, is the
great caldron for making cheese. They have
left us a few necessary kitchen utensils; and
besides, a hatchet all jagged at the edges, and a
saw which will hardly cut. We have each of
us a pocket-knife. Although our housekeeping
articles are very incomplete, we shall manage
to get on with these. We much more regret
the provisions: ours are but scanty. What a
pity we could only find three loaves, of the sort
which are kept for a whole year in the mountain,
and which are obliged at last to be chopped
up with a hatchet! We also found plenty of
salt, a small quantity of ground coffee, five
bottles of old white wine, a little oil, and a small
stock of pork lard.

We have only one bed, but we sleep at our
ease. According to our mountain custom, it is
big enough to hold five or six persons. It stands
in the corner of our only living-room, which is
also the kitchen and the cheese factory. Only
one blanket has been left us; if it is not enough,
we must make use of hay and straw. " I only
wish," I said, " that I could do as the marmots
do, go to sleep and remain torpid until the
return of spring."

November 26.—While examining the state
of our furniture and our provisions, I have
searched into every corner, to see if I could not
find some books. I knew that my father never
went up to the chalet without taking with him a
Bible and several religious books, which he read
to his workmen on Sundays, to supply in some
degree the public service which they attend in
the village. But, apparently, he had sent his
little library away.

We much regretted, in our solitary prison,
not having this means of sustaining and
consoling ourselves during our long watches.
Today, having noticed, behind the old oak
wardrobe, a plank which somebody had stuck there
out of the way, I pulled it out, thinking that it
might serve some useful purpose. With it, there
fell down an old dusty book which must have
been lost and forgotten for several years. It
was a Bible.

November 27.—Continually snowing! It is
rare to see so great a quantity fall even at this
season, and on the mountains. In spite of that,
I cannot get over my surprise at my father's
not coming to our assistance, nor can I help
expressing it. Hitherto, my grandfather has
not allowed me to perceive his uneasiness; our
conversation to-day has shown that he is not
less alarmed than myself.

"In fact," I said, " this immense fall of snow
did not come all at once. On the first, the
second, and even the third day of our captivity,
they might, one would think, have cleared a
path up to the chalet."

"I am certain," said my grandfather, "that
François has done all he could; but perhaps he
could not get our friends and neighbours to
share his fears, and it was out of his power to
rescue us without assistance."

"Do you believe that, if it had been possible
to fetch us away, they would have left us here,
at the risk of finding us dead in the spring?
Can they be less humane than the penons of
whom we read in the newspapers, who make the
greatest exertions, often at the peril of their
lives, to save some unfortunate fellow-creature
who is buried in a mine, in digging a well, or
under a vault which has fallen in?"

"I grant, my dear Louis, that our position is
very sad; but, after all, they know that we are
under shelter, and have some provisions."

We went on for some time in this strain.
When my grandfather was silent, I took his
hands in mine, and said:

"Hide nothing from me, I entreat you. Tell
me, are you not quite as uneasy as I am? Speak
frankly. I am able to bow with resignation to
the will of God; I therefore deserve your
confidence. Acquaint me with your suppositions,
and do not let me torment myself with my own
alone. I had rather look misfortune full in the
face, and know what you really think."

"Well, my poor boy, I cannot deny that I
fear some accident has happened to your father.
Now it has come to this, I had better tell you
so at once. But, in short, I hardly know what
to think of it; because, in default of him, other
persons ought to have borne us in mind."

At this, I could restrain my tears and sobs no
longer. My grandfather allowed me to give
way to my grief. The fire went out as we sat
before it. We remained there in the dark, till
it was quite late. My grandfather kept one of
my hands in his, pressing it from time to time.

"I have told you my fears," he said, at last;
"but do not forget that I still have hopes. We
cannot tell what unforeseen cause may have
prevented their coming. All may yet turn out
well. Put your trust in Providence."

December 1.—I cannot conquer the terror
which seizes me as I write this date. If some
of the November days appeared so long and
wearisome, what will they be this month? At
least it would be bearable if we were sure this
were the last of our captivity! But I no longer
dare fix any term to it. The snow is heaped up
to such a height that it looks as if it would
take the whole summer long to melt it. It is