Walk with Amélie, the future _religieuse_ of whom I spoke to you. She relieves herself a little to me of some of the desolation that fills her heart. She is not allowed to depart, and yet the delay requested is expired. Her grief makes my heart ache, and I would that it were given me to smooth for her the way to the cloister. For that I should be obliged to go out, to visit the mother; and as soon as I see any one I burst into tears. Do you blame me for the fidelity of my regrets? In listening to Amélie I understand what you must have undergone when once the Lord’s choice was clearly manifested. Pardon me for having wished still to hold you back! Gertrude, our saint _par excellence_, speaks admirably of heaven. Lucy weeps with me, and makes her pretty Anne wipe away my tears. Kate, will you read this? APRIL 26. Minds are much occupied respecting the _plébiscite_. My politics are not of this world; I hear what others say, and that is all. Sister, what is earth? I fear and pity it. Berthe is at Paris, somewhat preoccupied by present agitations. My poor soul passes through the most varying states: nameless anguish, indescribable discouragement, sweet and pure joys; one thing comes as a repose to the other, and life slips away.... Amélie came to me yesterday; she talked long of _her crosses_, glad to be understood, compassionated, and loved; she would willingly have remained with us for the night. Her home, where she was formerly so happy, appears to her now an insupportable place of abode, and her life, with all its struggles and contradictions, is a real martyrdom. I read her, from the _Pilgrimages of Switzerland_, a beautiful page on Christian resignation. Oh! how I would wish to console others—I, who cannot be consoled, alas! APRIL 30. Kate, I have been dreaming of you. Why did you go away so soon, sweet sister, so beloved?