We have four small, but very neat, pretty rooms.  Our floors are of unpainted pine, as white and clean as possible.  The room in which we spend our time, and where I am now writing, I must fully set before you....  Our centre table has had a nice new red cover put on it to-day, with a vase of flowers; it holds all our books, and is the ornament of the room.  In front of the sofa is a red rug on which we say our prayers.  Over it is a picture, and over G.’s table is another.  Out of the window you see first a pretty little flower garden, then the valley dotted with brown chalets, then the background of mountains.  Behind the house you go up a little winding path—­and can go on forever without stopping if you choose—­along the sides of which flowers such as we cultivate at home grow in profusion; you can’t help picking them and throwing them away to snatch a new handful.  The brook takes its rise on this side, and runs musically along as you ascend.  Yesterday we all went to church at nine and a half o’clock, and had our first experience of French preaching, and I was relieved to find myself understanding whole sentences here and there.  And now I need not, I suppose, wind up by saying we are in a charming spot.  All we want, as far as this world goes, is health and strength with which to enjoy all this beauty and all this sweet retirement, and these, I trust, it will give us in time.  Isabella “wears like gold.”  She is everything I hoped for, and from her there has not been even a tone of discomfort since we left.  But my back aches and my paper is full.  We all send heaps of love to you all and long to hear.

August 10th.—­We breakfast at eight on bread and honey, which is the universal Swiss breakfast, dine at one, and have tea at seven.  I usually sew and read and study all the forenoon.  After dinner we take our Alpen-stocks and go up behind the house—­a bit of mountain-climbing which makes me realise that I am no longer a young girl.  I get only so high, and then have to come back and lie down.  George and Annie beat me all to pieces with their exploits.  I do not believe we could have found anywhere in the world a spot better adapted to our needs.  How you would enjoy it!  I perfectly yearn to show you these mountains and all this green valley.  The views I send will give you a very good idea of it, however.  The smaller chalet in the print is ours.  In a little summer house opposite Isabella now sits at work on the sewing-machine.  My best love to all three of your dear “chicks,” and to your husband if “he’s willin’.”

To Mrs. H.B.  Washburn, Chateau d’Oex, August 21, 1858.