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264 when we stopped at one of the châlets; we had coffee of our own; the peasant girl put the whitest of cloths on a little table in the open window, from the vine of which we picked the finest bunches of grapes ever seen—the dew was yet on the fruit. They gave us some such eggs, cream like a custard, and a Neufchâtel cheese; some brown, but such sweet bread;—we never enjoyed a meal so much." Or else it is—"Do you remember that night when we stopped at the little village at the foot of the Apennines—cold, wet, hungry, and quarrelsome? In less than ten minutes our dark-eyed hostess had such a blazing wood fire on the hearth:—by the by, what a delicious odour the young green pine-branches give in burning! Half an hour saw us seated at a round table drawn close to the fire, with the very best of tempers and appetites. We had prevailed on the pretty Ninetta to forget in our favour the national predilection for oil and garlic. Our turkey was broiled, as our chestnuts were roasted, by the wood ashes; and a flask of such fine wine—the vineyard whence it came must have been summer's especial favourite." I know a traveller who carried these pleasures of memory to the utmost. Instead of a