A few extracts from this journal will serve to show the graceful style of Mdlle. de Guérin as a writer, her keen power of observation, her ability to find enjoyment and food for reflection in the most trifling things:-- "_November 15th, 1834._ "Since you wish it, my dear brother, I am about to continue this little journal, which you like so much. But as I want paper I serve myself with a stitched copy-book designed for poetry, of which I am taking out only the title; thread and leaves all remain there, and you shall have it, bulky as it is, on the first opportunity. "_17th._--Three letters since yesterday--three very great pleasures, for I love letters so much, and those who write these, that is Louise, Mimi, and Félicité. This dear Mimi tells me charming and sweet things about our separation, about her return, her _ennui_, for she is wearied so far from me as I am wearied without her. Every moment I see I feel that she wants me, especially at night, when I am accustomed to hear her breathe into my ear. This little sound makes me sleep. Not to hear it makes me think sadly. I think of death, which makes such silence all around us; also an absence. These thoughts of the night come and mingle with those of the day. What maladies they speak of, what deaths! The clock of Andillac has sounded only knells these days. It is the malignant fever which makes its ravages every year. We are all mourning a young woman of your age, the most beautiful, the most virtuous of the parish, carried off some days ago. She left an infant at the breast; poor little one! It was Marianne de Gillard. Last Sunday I went again to press the hand of one at the point of death eighteen years old. She recognised me, the poor young girl, said a word to me, and resumed her prayer. I wished to speak to her, but knew not what to say; the dying speak better than we. She was buried on Monday. What reflections to make on these fresh tombs. O my God, how quickly people depart from this world! In the evening, when I am alone, all these forms of the dead visit me again. I have no fear, but my thoughts are all mournful, and the world seems to me as sad as a tomb. I have said, however, that these letters have given me pleasure. Oh! it is very true; my heart is not mute in the midst of these agonies, and feels only more keenly what life brings it. Your letter, then, has given me a gleam of joy--nay, a veritable happiness--by the good things with which it is filled. At length your future begins to dawn; I see for you a calling, a social position, a point of support in real life. God be praised! It is what I desired the most in the world for you and me, for my future is joined to yours; they are brothers. I have had beautiful dreams on this subject; I will, perhaps, tell you them. For the moment, adieu; I must write to