Once a week we dine at Doctor Morand's. He is a man of great ability, who has only missed making his mark through want of a wider field. He is the one mortal capable of exercising an influence over Captain Barbassou, if the character of the latter did not place him out of reach of all external control. In this home family life reigns in its happiest and most charming simplicity, represented by a goodly quiver-full of children. I have already told you about young Morand, the spahi, and his cousin Genevieve. Genevieve, with her nineteen summers, is the eldest, by several years, of a prolific brood, the offspring of her mother's second marriage. The doctor, who is a rich man for his district, took them all to live with him after his sister's death. A more delightful and refreshing place cannot be found than this heaven-blest home, the very atmosphere of which breathes the odour of peaceful happiness and honest purity. You should see Genevieve, _la grande_, surrounded by her four _petits_, her brothers and sisters, with their chubby faces, all neat and clean, obedient and cheeky at the same time, and kept in order by her with a youthful discipline, flavoured now and then with a spice of playfulness. Is she really pretty? I confess I cannot decide. The question of beauty in her case is so completely put out of mind by a certain charm of manner, that one forgets to analyse it. She has certainly fine eyes, for they hold you spell-bound by the soul shining through them. George Morand, her _fiance_, adores her, and, headstrong _Africain_ though he is, even he feels an influence within her which subjugates his fiery spirit. They could not be a better match for each other, and will live happily together. She will chasten the exuberant ardour of the Provencal warrior. My uncle professes to detest "the brats;" it is needless, perhaps, to add that, directly he arrives, the whole of them rush to him, climb on his knees, and stay there for the rest of his visit. He is their horse; he makes boats for them, and all the rest of it. The other day you might have seen him grumbling as he sewed a button on Toto's drawers (which he had torn off by turning him head over heels), fearing lest Genevieve should scold him. I am very cordially welcomed by the whole house, and you may imagine what interminable discussions the doctor and I carry on. Having been formerly a professor in the School of Medicine at Montpellier, he was led by his researches in physiology to a very pronounced materialism. Now that he has read my spiritualistic articles, he tries hard to break down my arguments. On the third side, my uncle, as a Mahometan, wants to convert him to deism; you may judge from this how much harmony there is between us; you might take us for an Academy!