“God sends you them to replace me,” said Picciola to her mother. Sweet angel! The nest is large enough to shelter two more doves; stay with us too! Berthe has had the poor little girls clothed, and has also adopted them. Thérèse and Picciola undertake to acclimatize them. “This is truly the house of the good God,” said Marianne.
Margaret loves France. With her, ennui is impossible. And how quickly she has become attached to Marcella! How well these two natures suit each other in spite of their contrasts! Dear Kate, this meeting again is a real blessing; I would fain live always thus. It is singular that our days are so full of charm, notwithstanding the uneasiness we are in on Picciola’s account. She also—she is too dear to die! Why cannot we accompany her all together, and pass without transition from meetings on earth to the meeting again in heaven?
Margaret receives intensely interesting letters from Rome; I should like to copy them for you. Have I told you how much Gertrude’s saintliness excites the admiration of our fair lady? Gertrude is become the guide and adviser of all; even my mother likes to be directed by her judgment. Her magnificent wardrobe is no longer hers; robes of silk and velvet—all are made into church vestments: impossible to imagine a more complete spoliation. She is uniformly dressed in black woollen; what a contrast to our worldly vanities! Her rooms, formerly so tasteful and rich, have undergone a radical transformation. She belongs to a princely family. Her tastes and habits were in accordance with her rank; her room was hung with crimson velvet, which is now replaced by a dark-colored paper, whilst the elegant furniture and superfluities have been banished to make way for the plainest articles she has been able to find. Adrien has sold his equipages to found a hospital. “Do you know, nothing would be easier than to transform this château into a monastery,” Margaret said to me. “Yes, in proceeding as Gertrude has done.”
Adieu, dear Kate!
TO BE CONTINUED.
“Fold, fold again, my child, thy dove-like wings,
Open thy fair eyes, sweet, ’neath my caress.
Ah! knewest thou the coldness of the tomb!
Nay, happiness dwells only in the skies!