My mother being dead, there was no longer any one at home to speak to me of religious things. My father is an honorable, upright man, and attentive to his business, but as regardless of another world as if there were none. My young brother is pious to a certain degree, I suppose, but he is timid and reserved. Only my sister remains. Aline left boarding-school about six months ago. She is nearly ten years younger than I, and bears a striking resemblance to my mother. She has the same kindness of heart and the same tone of piety, at once fervent and rational, which I always loved and admired in my mother. I had been separated from my sister many years, and when I met her again, I was struck, with this resemblance, and at once conceived so much affection and respect for her as to astonish myself. As soon as Aline returned home, the appearance of everything changed: the house became more attractive. I certainly do not wish to impute any blame to my father—I love and respect him too much for that—but you know as well as I that a house is not what it should be that has no woman to preside over it. An Arabian poet says the mistress of a house is its soul, and he is right. After my mother’s death, the house became gloomy, but there was a marked change when Aline returned. It seemed as if my mother had come back after a long absence to diffuse once more around her cheerfulness, order, and piety. But the superintendence of the household affairs, and her obligations to society, did not wholly fill up Aline’s time. Like her whose living image she was, she was eager to extend her knowledge. Before her return, my father had subscribed for that wretched journal which is the delight of the unbeliever, or those who wish to pass as such. Aline sometimes read it, but she disliked it, as you may suppose. She imparted her impressions to me, but I did not conceal from her my sympathy with its irreligious views. “Well, I do not agree with it in the least,” said she; “and, as I like to know what is going on, I wish I could subscribe for M. Barnier’s paper. Mme. C—— has lent it to me for some time. It is an able, thoughtful journal, and edited by a sincere Catholic. That is the kind of a newspaper that suits me.” “Then, order it to be sent you.” “That would be ridiculous. A young girl cannot subscribe for a newspaper.” “I see no other way of having it.” “Excuse me, there is. If you were obliging, you would see the way at once.” “And subscribe for you!... I subscribe for a _journal de sacristie_?... That would be going rather too far; I should be laughed at.” “You must have publicly compromised yourself, then, to fear making people talk by subscribing for a respectable paper.” ... The cut was well aimed. I reddened, but made no reply, and went away. That night I subscribed for your paper, and received my first number. Of course I opened it at once, out of perverse curiosity. I should have been overjoyed to find a single flaw in it.