our bodily eyes, whilst the sunshine of the holy and noble words we had just heard illuminated the vision of our souls and opened out to us vistas of beauty. Dear sister of my life, sister unspeakably beloved, I found you on re-entering—a whole packet of letters, in which at first I saw only your dear handwriting. How truly it is yourself! I gave your beautiful pages to Gertrude: she will tell you herself what effect they have produced. Then Madame D—— with a photograph of the departed child—of Nelly dead! How well I recognized her! This image of death moved me with pity for the poor mother, but I felt nothing like fear. Why should death make me afraid? Would the exiled son returning to his father fear the rapid crossing which would restore him to his country, his affections, and his happiness? And where is our country, where are our affections and happiness to be found, except in heaven, in God, who alone can satisfy our desires? Mother St. Maurice only sends me a few words, but so kind and tender. Margaret writes me the sweetest things; she complains of my silence, and informs me that the little cradle she is adorning with so much care and love will soon receive its expected guest. Karl is coming to us; reasons of fitness and of affection have detained him, but his desire is more ardent than ever. Oh! to think of seeing him without Ellen. Kate, what is life?
I am going to sleep, but first I wish to ascertain whether Anna is free from fever. Marcella was uneasy this evening.
They are both asleep, beautiful enough to charm the angels. The little one’s breathing is calm and gentle. I prayed by her, placing
myself also under the sheltering wing of the invisible Guardian.
I salute yours, and embrace you, dearest Kate.
March 16, 1868.
“As on high, so also here below, to love and to be loved—this is happiness.” Oh! how truly he speaks, and how I realize it every day! Your tender affection, dearest Kate, that of René, and of all the kind hearts around me—this is heaven, or, at least, that which leads one thither.
Mid-Lent, and the Feast of St. Joseph—this sweet and great saint, so powerful in heaven. O most glorious patriarch, who didst behold, and bear in thy arms the Messias desired by thy fathers, foretold by thine ancestor David and all the prophets, how favored wert thou of the Lord! Marcella said to me: “I have a particular devotion for St. Joseph, and a boundless confidence in him; I have often thought that he must have known a multitude of things about our Lord which no one has ever known.” O St. Joseph! remember those who invoke you in exile. What an admirable existence! What a long poem from the day when the rod of the carpenter blossomed in the Temple to that when Joseph expires in the arms of Jesus and Mary, the two whom every Christian would wish to have by him when on his death-bed! Never did any man receive a mission more divine than was entrusted by the Almighty to St. Joseph. I love to picture him to myself, grave, recollected, seraphic, accompanying Mary, that sweet young flower whom the angels loved to contemplate, leading her over the mountains to Hebron, to the abode of Elizabeth, then to Bethlehem and the Crib, then into Egypt—a long
and painful journey through the desert. Did those who met the Patriarch, the humble and holy Virgin, and her dear Treasure suppose that it was the Salvation of the world who was passing by?
Evening.—Karl is here, dear Kate, more grave and saintly than ever; his feet on earth, his heart in heaven! He gives us a week. Adrien arrived at the same time—two souls formed to understand one another. Letters from Ireland, where Karl’s departure is causing general regret. We spoke of Ellen—an inexhaustible subject. Karl was moved as he listened to me; there are so many memories of my childhood to which those of Ellen are united, making them doubly sweet.