I don't think I shall write much more. I have now experienced all the seasons in my new world. The circle is complete. There is nothing new to come from without. I know all that exists about me, or that can happen. I am at home in my new world. * * * * * Unto Jesus the Scribes and Pharisees brought a woman who was to be stoned to death, and He said unto them, "Let him that is without sin among you cast the first stone." Thus it is written. But I ask: How did she continue to live--she who was saved from being stoned to death; she who was pardoned--that is, condemned to live? How did she live on? Did she return to her home? How did she stand with the world? And how with her own heart? No answer. None. I must find the answer in my own experience * * * * * "Let him that is without sin among you cast the first stone." These are the noblest, the greatest words ever uttered by human lips, or heard by human ear. They divide the history of the human race into two parts. They are the "Let there be light" of the second creation. They divide and heal my little life too, and create me anew. Has one who is not wholly without sin a right to offer precepts and reflections to others? Look into your own heart. What are you? Behold my hands. They are hardened by toil. I have done more than merely lift them in prayer. * * * * * Since I am alone I have not seen a letter of print. I have no book and wish for none; and this is not in order to mortify myself, but because I wish to be perfectly alone. * * * * * She who renounces the world, and in her loneliness still cherishes the thought of eternity, has assumed a heavy burden. Convent life is not without its advantages. The different voices that join in the _chorale_ sustain each other; and when the tone at last ceases, it seems to float away on the air and vanish by degrees. But here I am quite alone. I am priest and church, organ and congregation, confessor and penitent, all in one; and my heart is often _so_ heavy, as if I must needs have another to help me bear the load. "Take me up and carry me, I cannot go further!" cries my soul. But then I rouse myself again, seize my scrip and my pilgrim's staff and wander on, solitary and alone; and while I wander, strength returns to me. * * * * * It often seems to me as if it were sinful thus to bury myself alive. My voice is no longer heard in song, and much more that dwells within me has become mute. Is this right? If my only object in life were to be at peace with myself, it would be well enough; but I long to labor and to do something for others. Yet where and what shall it be? * * * * *