It was not until long after that I understood the possibility of being reconciled to such a fate. Madame de B. was no devotee; she had had me instructed in the duties of my religion by a respectable priest, from whom I imbibed my only notions on the subject. They were as sincere as my own character; but I was not aware that piety is of no succour, unless mingled with the daily actions of life. I had devoted a few moments of each day to its practice, but left it a stranger to the rest. My confessor was an indulgent, unsuspicious old man, whom I saw twice or thrice a year; but as I did not imagine that my grief could be a fault I never mentioned it to him; meanwhile it continued to undermine mine my health, though, strange to say, it perfected my understanding. "What doth the man know who hath not suffered?" says an Eastern sage; and I soon perceived how true this was. What I had taken for ideas were impressions. I did not judge--I liked. I was either pleased or displeased with the words or actions of the persons I lived with, but stopped not to consider why. Since I had found out that the world would reject me, I began to examine and criticise almost every thing that had hitherto enchanted me. * * * * * Such a tendency could not escape Madame de B.'s penetration; though I never knew whether she guessed the cause. Possibly she was afraid of letting me confide my chagrin to her, for fear of increasing it; but she was even kinder to me than usual; she entrusted all her thoughts to me, and tried to dissipate my own troubles by busying me with her's. She judged my heart rightly, for nothing could attach me to life but the idea of being necessary or even useful to my benefactress. To be alone, to die, and leave no regret in the soul of any being, was the dread that haunted me: but there I was unjust towards her, for she sincerely loved me; still she had other and superior interests to mine. I did not envy her tenderness for her grandchildren; but, oh! how I longed like them to call her mother!