inns, and is never dreamt of amidst the riot of the table d'hôte.
Few places can rival the narrow ledge of rock, with a precipice in front and an ice slope rising behind, where our tiny tent was pitched, and few setting suns have disclosed more gorgeous contrasts and tenderer harmonies than that which heralded the night of August 4, 1893.
Our party consisted of Miss Bristow, Mr. Hastings, and myself. Warmly wrapped in sleeping bags, we sat sipping hot tea till the smallest and laziest of the stars was wide awake. Only when the chill breeze of night had dried up the rivulets, and the roar of the torrent five thousand feet below alone broke the solemn silence of the night, did we creep into the shelter of our tent. Hastings then tightened the ropes, and ingeniously arranged the cooking stove and the various provisions required for breakfast, in places where they were conveniently accessible from the tent; and having crawled in, shut the door, and we settled ourselves amongst our luxurious mattresses and bags.
By 5 a.m. the next morning a sumptuous meal was ready. From rolls to hot bacon, from jam to tea and fresh milk, the all-producing bag of Hastings had sufficed, and we feasted in a "regular right down royal" style till six o'clock, by which time the rest of our party, Slingsby, Collie, and Brodie, had arrived. A second edition of breakfast
