broader, deeper, and swifter, and swirled formidably in places, requiring much caution in the boatmen ; the evening closed in while we had still some way to go. I t was not altogether pleasant, as the punt was not particularly "stiff," the navigation was difficult, and it was becoming very dark. At length the welcome bridge which betokened our destination loomed high in front. The party from Millau had been there awaiting me till dark, and then left. I was fortunate in securing a trap, wherein to drive the few miles that then separated me from them.
We all went together the next day to Montpelier le Vieux, so called because its rocks look from a distance like the turrets of a weird city on a hilltop. Each rock stands by itself on a carpet of green verdure. Crowds of legends have, of course, clustered round this strange locality. Anyhow, it is an ideal place for a picnic in which to spend the long hours of a sunny day. The whole of the south-west corner of France is full of interest, and the part just mentioned seems quite unique.
I wish I could more adequately and yet appropriately have expressed my affectionate feelings towards the many friends to whom I have made too scanty reference in this chapter.
During the year that followed the death of my wife in 1897, I made a tour with one of her nephews, a Frank Butler, son of Spencer P. Butler. He became engaged to an English lady, a niece of Mrs. MacLennan, while we were touring in Corsica with her party, and married shortly after.. Henceforward a niece, Miss Evelyne Biggs, or more strictly speaking a grandniece of my own, granddaughter of my sister