flakes of snow have fallen down through this
narrow channel.

These white messengers of winter are the
only things which keep up a communication
between ourselves and the world. If our clock
were to stop, we should lose all cognisance of
time. Our only means of distinguishing night
from day would be the speck of light which we
can see in the morning at the top of the iron
tube. On the other hand, we suffer very little
from cold in our silent cave. When we have
lighted the lamp, and are busy about our daily
tasks before a bright fire, we partly forget our
unfortunate condition. At such moments, there
are even certain of our acquaintances who
would envy us. Who has not often wished to
be Robinson Crusoe in his desert island? And
yet, he had less cause for hope than we have.
It was a mere chance that some stray vessel
might touch at his island, whilst we are
certain that the snow will melt, sooner or later.

December 25, Christmas-day.—We devoted
the day to meditation and prayer. We must be
suffering under misfortunes to appreciate
properly what the Saviour has done for men.
Before His advent, how bitter adversity must
have been! How easily it must have led to
complainings and despair! The reflection is not
mine, but my grandfather's.

If I am spared to descend from the mountain,
I shall be able to say to my friends, "If
you had known, as I have, how needful
society is to every individual, you would feel
towards one another no other sentiments than
those of love and charity. Let us banish into
temporary solitude all those who will not understand
these things, and who stir up amongst
us troubles and war. They will soon understand
their folly; they will learn from
experience that it is not good for man to be alone;
they will love, as they love themselves, that
neighbour without whom life would no longer be
a blessing, but a chastisement of Providence."

December 28.—Yesterday, my grandfather
had no appetite; but he did not complain of
pain. In the evening, after supper, as he was
sitting by the corner of the fire, he suddenly
turned pale, tottered, and sank down. Without
my assistance, he would have fallen into the fire.

I took him in my arms, and with an effort of
which I did not believe myself capable, I
transported him to his bed, where I first seated him
and then laid him at full length. His head and
his hands were cold; the blood had rushed
towards the heart. I took care not to raise the
patient's head, but left it low, and the blood
soon flowed back to it. Consciousness returned
at the same time.

"Where am I? On the bed?" said my
grandfather.

"Certainly; you turned faint, and I thought
it best to lay you there."

"He brought me here! Heaven be praised
for it! As I become weaker, he grows stronger,"
he said. I knelt by the bedside for a while. At
last he consented to drink a little wine, and felt
the better for it.

January 1.—We have been keeping New
Year's-day as well as we could; my grandfather
exerted himself to cheer up my spirits. He
tried to amuse me with conundrums and riddles.
We feasted at supper on potatoes cooked in the
ashes, toasted cheese, and toasted bread sopped
in wine. The goat was not forgotten; I picked
out the sweetest hay for her provender; she
had a clean bed, a double ration of salt, and a
triple allowance of caresses.

My grandfather wishes to add a few words in
his own handwriting:
   "In the name of God, Amen!
"It is possible that I may be taken from my
friends, before I can acquaint them with my
last wishes. I have no general directions to
give respecting the disposal of my property;
that duty has been performed long ago; but I
wish to acknowledge the care and devotion of
my dear grandson, Louis Lopraz, here present.
And as it is impossible for me to make him the
slightest new year's offering to-day, I beg my
heirs to supply the omission by giving him, on
my part, my repeater watch; my carabine; my
Bible, which belonged to my father; and lastly,
my steel seal, on which are engraved my initials,
which are the same as those of my godson and
grandson.
"I am convinced that he will value these
slight tokens, for the sake of the affectionate
friendship which unites us, and which death
itself will not cause to cease.
"Such is my will.
"Signed at the Châlet of Anzindes, the 1st
of January.
"LOUIS LOPRAZ."

January 5.—My grandfather spoke to me this
morning about the state of his health without
disguising anything. Every word he said is
still ringing in my ears.

"My dear boy," he said, after making me sit
down by his side, "I can no longer conceal from
myself that the close of my life is not far distant.
Whether we shall be able to keep united my
soul and the portion of dust which is called my
body until I can witness your deliverance, is
more than I can tell; but I scarcely dare to
hope it. My weakness increases with a rapidity
which astonishes me; and it is to be presumed
that I shall leave you to finish our sad winter
quarters alone.

"You will be, I doubt not, more grieved at
our separation than alarmed at your loneliness;
you will feel more sorrow than fear. But I have
sufficient confidence in your pious feelings and
your strength of mind to be persuaded that you
will not fall into a culpable degree of depression;
you will think of your father, whom you will
assuredly see again, and that will keep up your
courage. A little reflection will convince you
that, after my death, you will be exposed to no
greater danger in the chalet than you were
before. On the contrary, I have rather been a
burden to you; you will no longer have famine
staring you in the face. I strongly advise you
to wait patiently. Do not expose yourself too