A LOVE-LETTER. 
253 
biscuit and tobacco. It is a letter. How long it has 
lain there, or who it is intended for, we cannot imagine. 
Long since the envelope has been frayed away, and 
become tattered ; the address, if ever it had any, is no 
longer decipherable. The note it contained is safe 
enough, but somewhat torn. It began, “ My dearest,” 
and wound up with “from your own fond love.” What 
else it contained we must not say, but it brought 
back tender thoughts of home and friends, and we 
felt it might have been for our reading, and we 
put it away carefully, and once more turned to our 
task. One long hour's toil, and at last we sat 
astride the high peak. The enchantment of the 
scene forbids any attempt at description; and the 
vague feeling of insecurity, as we looked down from 
our giddy height upon the steep mountain side, made 
us rather think of our safety than linger there with 
so much danger pressing around us. The cold, too, 
which we could not feel in our ascent, now began 
to warn us that if it once got possession of our limbs, 
it could not easily be shaken off, as we had learned by 
experience. So, without remaining one minute longer 
than the time demanded while we satisfied ourselves 
as to the problem that brought us there, we dis¬ 
mounted, and began slowly to pick our downward 
steps. The steep places on a mountain of this cha- 
