bundles? Has she paralyzed her heart? Does she love no one? Is she a piece of mechanism, passing from the dreary garret to the dark cellar in the poor neighborhood which surrounds her? No; this widow is a great lady, bearing one of the oldest names of France. She is going to visit the dying, to supply them with clothes and food, to teach their ignorant children; and on her return she takes her pen, and from this heart, which you believe cold and frozen, flow forth these words: "O my dear sister! can I fill you with joy and courage in writing? Would that it were in my power; you do not know how I love you, but you will know in eternity, where we shall enjoy each other's love fully and completely." {24} This devotee paid a visit to another devotee, an old Russian lady, of whom she writes: "I have seen Madame Swetchine; this delightful, excellent woman told me that we ought not to speak ill of life, for it is full of beauty; and yet this woman, so tender and so pious, is overwhelmed with moral and physical suffering. She said to me, 'I love what _is_, because it is true; I am contented.' The longer I live the more I wish to have my heart filled with love, and only with love." Of all Alexandrine's former pleasures, the sole relaxations she permitted herself were music and reading. Part of her time she spent in Paris in the hospitals, which she entered with the joyous, animated air of a young girl who sets out for a _fête_, or a warrior who returns from battle. She ended by hiring a little room in the Rue de Sèvres in order to live more plainly. Her sisters, in looking into her wardrobe, found that it contained nothing. She had robbed herself to give to the poor. This noble woman had but one cause --the cause of God. She became the generous servant, almost the soldier of the church, interesting herself in the cause of freedom, contributing to foreign missions, seconding the educational projects of her friend, M. de Montalembert; and, from the quiet of her little chamber, giving forth her money and her prayers for the service of God. Madame Craven, in a letter, dated the 31st of July, thus writes: "The evening of my departure from Boury we went into the cemetery to pray. Alexandrine knelt beside Albert's tomb, on the spot which, twelve years before, had been prepared for herself. I was on my knees, by Olga. The night was warm and beautiful. As we strolled slowly home, I turned and admired the setting sun, which was embellishing, with its many colored rays, this sad spot. 'I love the setting sun,' I exclaimed. 'Since my sorrow,' replied Alexandrine, 'the setting sun makes me sad. It is the precursor of night. I do not like the night. I love the morning and the spring--they bring before me the reality of life that never ends. Night represents to me darkness and sin; evening the transitory nature of the world; but morning and spring give me promise of the resurrection and renewal of all things.' As we continued our walk,