Here is winter upon us—melancholy winter, which makes poor mothers weep.
Meditated yesterday on the joys of the love of Jesus, which in Holy Communion melts our heart like two pieces of wax into one only—Jesus, the only true friend, who consoles and sustains, and without whom all is vanity. The Christian who has prayer and Communion ought to live in perpetual gladness of heart.
I must confess to you, my Kate, that I envy Johanna, Berthe, and Lucy. They allow me to share largely in their maternal joys, but these treasures in which I take such pleasure, why are they not my own? I felt sad about it yesterday, and murmured to myself these lines of Brizeux:
“Jours passés, que chacun rappelle avec des larmes,
Jours qu’en vain on regrette, aviez vous tant des charmes?
Ou les vents troublaient-ils aussi votre clarté,
Et l’ennui du présent fait-il votre beauté”[23]
René was behind me. “What, then, do you regret, my Georgina?” I told him all, and how gently and sweetly he comforted me—as you would, my Kate! Poor feeble reed that I am, I lean upon you.
May the Blessed Virgin Mary protect us, dear sister!
November 13.