To-day is St. Stanislaus――the gentle young saint whose feast Margaret pointed out to me with a hope which is not realized. Our dear _Anglaise_ wanted to have us _all together_ in her princely dwelling. The absence of the _Adrien family_, Lucy’s journey――all these dispersions have disarranged the grand project. And yet there are moments when I experience a kind of home-sickness――a thirst to see our dear Erin again, a longing to live under my native sky――which tells upon my health. Do not pity me too much, Kate; I possess all the elements of happiness which could be brought together in a single existence. I love the seraphic Stanislaus, holding in his arms the infant Jesus. O great saint! give me a little of your love of God, a little of your fervent piety, that I may detach myself from the world! I am afraid of loving it too much, my sister. The day before yesterday was the feast of St. Martin――this hero whose history is so poetic. I like to think of this mantle, cut in two to clothe a poor man, and of our Lord appearing that night to the warrior, who in the Saviour’s vestment recognized the half of his mantle. Kind St. Martin! giving us a second summer, which I find delightful, loving as I do the warm and perfumed breezes of the months that have long days, and regretting the return of winter with its ice, when, shivering in well-closed rooms, one thinks of the poor without fire and shelter. Dear _poor of the good God_![24] Margaret shares my fondness for them. Never in our Brittany will the sojourn of this sweet friend be forgotten. What noise! _Adieu_, my sister; _Erin go bragh!_ NOVEMBER 17. You have heard the joyful tidings, Kate dearest――the triumph of Mentana? Gertrude writes to us. _Adrien_ and his two sons fought like lions, and his courageous wife followed the army, waiting on the wounded, praying for her dear ones, who had not a scratch! They were afterwards received in private audience by the Holy Father, who seemed to them more saintly and sublime than ever. God does indeed do all things well! All these loving hearts, torn by the departure of Hélène, have recovered their happiness, are enthusiastic in their heroism and devotion, have been violently snatched from all selfish regrets, and have enriched themselves with lifelong memories. Mgr. Dupanloup has written to the clergy of his diocese, ordering thanksgivings to be offered in the churches; and the holy and illustrious Pius IX. has written to the eloquent bishop, to whom he sends his thanks and benediction.