_Has_ not the truth he holds—though plain; For truth divine is gift, not debt:— Her living waters wouldst thou drain? Let down the pitcher, not the net! But they, the spirits frank and meek, Nor housed in self, nor science-blind, Who welcome truths they did not seek;— Truth comes to them in every wind. Beside his tent’s still open door, With open heart, and open eye, The patriarch sat, when they who wore That triad type of God drew nigh. The world of faith around us lies Like nature’s world of life and growth: Seeing, to see it needeth eyes And heart, profound and simple both. LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER. FROM THE FRENCH. NOVEMBER 16, 1869. Thérèse has followed her sister.... At the last moment reason returned; she looked at her mother and said: “Here is Mad; give me your blessing!” O my God! it is, then, true—the nest is empty. Kate, how are Berthe and Raoul to be consoled? NOVEMBER 22, 1869. Margaret is here again—a ray of sunshine after the storm, in this dwelling, twice visited by death. Oh! how we wept in embracing her. And with what affection she hastened to Berthe, this devastated, disinherited, wounded, and bleeding heart! “How shall we leave this cemetery now?” said my mother to Gertrude. Oh! I would wish to remain here with her. To return to Orleans, to find their traces everywhere, would be too much grief. What a crushing blow! What incredible, unforeseen suddenness! It is enough to take away one’s reason. Raoul speaks no more, hears no more, sees no more; Berthe is in tears: we have to console and support them. Help us with your prayers, happy Kate, who witness no death! In the middle of the park are two trees which Raoul planted on the day his daughters were born. They are to be transplanted to their tombs. Dear children, so united, so beautiful, and inseparable, even in death! O the mother! what sorrow is hers. Ought children to die before their mother? Mme. de T—— is heroic in self-denial, and yet these deaths revive all her troubles. Ah! who could have foretold that my happiness would so soon have declined, and that God would so quickly have claimed his portion of our treasure! See, here are Gertrude and Berthe—two mothers without children: Ellen and Edith in eternity; Marcella at Naples. I now experience an indescribable apprehension, and count the beloved heads by which I am still surrounded.... I remember the L—— family, carried off in one year. A radiant letter from Marcella, who does not yet know of our mourning. _Beati qui lugent!_ Let us love God, let us love God! It is in him that I cherish you, my Kate. NOVEMBER 28, 1869.