examined the account-books of the house under the eye of the terrible old dowager, who, moreover, could not sleep unless some one read to her aloud. “Till five o’clock in the morning I used to read Cooper or Scott.” What do you think of this anticipated purgatory, dear Kate? Marcella, timid, and without any experience of life, tried to resign herself to her lot, until at Paris M. de Clissey asked her to exchange her dependent condition for a happy and honored life. She accepted his offer, to the no small despair of the old lady, who loudly charged her with ingratitude, and thought to revenge herself by not paying her the promised remuneration. M. de Clissey triumphantly took away his beautiful young bride to his native town. “It seemed to me as if I had had a resurrection to another life. For ten years our happiness was without alloy. But the cross, alas! is everywhere; and I am now, at thirty-two years of age, a widow, with unspeakable memories and my pretty little Anna, whose love is my consolation.” Thank God! Marcella has friends also, and my mother wishes to propose to her to live with us. Kate, what a good, sweet, happy destiny God has granted us! How I pity those orphans who have not, as I have, a sister to love them! Oh! may God bless you, and render to you all the good that your kind heart has done to me! Hurrah for Ireland! Erin mavourneen! JANUARY 20. I have recovered my happiness: René is here. I never weary of hearing him, of rejoicing that I have him. Dearest, I am enchanted with what he tells me about you. Tell me if ever two sisters loved each other as we do? No; it is not possible. Lord William, Margaret, Lizzy, Isa, all our friends beyond the sea, are represented on my writing-table――under envelopes. Karl will come back to us; he “is burning to belong to God.” You know all the details: the father blessing the coffin of his daughter, the sister, abounding in consolation――all these miracles of grace and love. O dear Kate! how good God is. What will you think of my boldness? Isa has often expressed regret at her inability to read _Guérin_, as Gerty used to say; so I thought I would attempt a translation. I write so rapidly that I shall soon be at the end of my task. The souls of Eugénie and of Isa are too much like those of sisters not to understand each other. These few days spent in the society of the Solitary of Cayla have more than ever attached me to that soul at the same time so ardent and so calm, a furnace of Jove, concentrated upon his brother Maurice, who was taken from him by death――alas! as if to prove once more that earth is the place of tears, and heaven alone that of happiness. “Qu’est-ce donc que les jours pour valoir qu’on les pleure?”[31]