"_24th._--How beautiful must be the heaven of heavens! This is what I have been thinking during the time I have just spent in contemplation under a most beautiful winter sky. It is my practice to open my window before going to bed to see what sort of weather it is, and, if fine, to enjoy it a moment. To-night I looked longer than usual; it was so ravishing, this beautiful night. But for the fear of taking cold I should be there still. I thought of God, who has made our prison so radiant; I thought of the saints, who have all these beauteous stars beneath their feet; I thought of you, who were, perhaps, looking up to them like me. I could have stayed there easily all night; however, it was necessary to shut the window to all the beauty outside, and to close the eyes under curtains. Eran has brought me to-night two letters from Louise. They are charming, ravishing to the mind, soul, and heart, and all for me. I know not why I am not transported, intoxicated with friendship. God knows, however, that I love it! "No place in the world is so pleasant to me as home. Oh! the happy home! How I grieve for you, poor exile, so far from it, seeing only your kindred in thought, being unable to bid good morning or good night, living a stranger, having father, brother, sisters, not living with you but elsewhere! All that is sad, but I cannot desire anything else for you. We cannot have you, but I hope to see you again, and that consoles me; a thousand times I think of that, and foresee how happy we shall be." "_29th._-- ... Oh! how sweet it is, when the rain is heard pattering, to be by the corner of one's fire, tongs in one's hand, making sparks! This was my amusement just now. I am very fond of it; sparks are so pretty! They are the flowers of the chimney. Really, there are charming things going on about the embers, and, when I am not occupied, I amuse myself in watching the phantasmagoria of the hearth. There are a thousand little hearth-forms coming, going, dilating, changing, disappearing; now angels, now horned demons, children, old women, butterflies, dogs, sparrows. One sees a little of everything in the firebrand. I remember one figure, bearing an expression of heavenly suffering, which seemed to me to depict a soul in purgatory. I was struck by it, and should like to have had a painter with me. There was never a vision more perfect. Notice the logs burning and you will agree with me that there are beautiful things, and that unless we are blind we ought not to find time tedious beside a fire. Listen especially to that little whistle which sometimes comes from below the burning coal, like a voice that sings. Nothing is more sweet or pure; one would say it was some very diminutive spirit of fire that sings."