Yesterday a long walk with Margaret, who loves our heaths, our fields of broom, our reedy places, our customs, and who is always ready when there is a good work to be done. My mother is not well—“The effect of old age,” she says. Would that I could keep away all pain from that dear head! Mme. Swetchine says: “All the joys of earth would not assuage our thirst for happiness, and one single sorrow suffices to fold life in a sombre veil, to strike it throughout with nothingness.” How true this is! St. Augustine is one of René’s patrons; you may imagine whether we have not prayed to him very much. Gertrude writes to me: “Here are some lines which I commend to your meditations: 'All passes, all vanishes away, all is carried away by the river of Eternity. The most sacred and sweet affections we see broken, some by absence—that sleep of the heart—others by a culpable inconstancy; many, alas! by death. The days of our childhood, the years of our youth, the friendships begun in the cradle, the more serious attachments of riper age, the affections of home, the bonds formed at the altar—all are touched, withered, annihilated by the inexorable hand of time.’ Dear Georgina,” continues Gertrude, “all lives again, all arises from its tomb, all becomes again resplendent with God! Hope, then! _Excelsior._” Lord William has brought us a most interesting book—_Our Life in the Highlands_, by Queen Victoria. What soul! What heart! Why is she not a Catholic? My poor Ireland, when wilt thou recover thy freedom? O Ireland! _patria mia!_ Thérèse regrets Anna’s approaching departure, but she is courageous. The _babies_ do not take it in the same way, and Marguérite told Anna plainly: “All that you may say to me is of no use. I know Italian, mademoiselle: _Chi sta bene, non si muove._”[13] I had to preach for an hour before I could persuade Marguérite to consent to apologize to the dear little Italian, who cried so much at being accused of inconstancy. These little people! Footnote 13: “He who is well off stays where he is.” Good-by, dear Kate; Picciola sends you a kiss. AUGUST 30, 1869. I have just been telling the children the beautiful story of St. Felix and St. Adauctus, as the charming imagination of Margaret had arranged it at the convent. How they listened to me. On turning round I was taken by surprise: René was there! You know that I like to be alone when fulfilling the functions of _professor_—a title which I usurp from the good _abbé_, whose charity frequently takes him from home. “Are you displeased?” asked _my brother_. _Displeased!_ But he and I are altogether one—one and the same soul. Picciola makes profound observations thereupon. Margaret tells me that she said to her: “The soul ought in this world to be with God as Uncle René is with Aunt Georgina, and as you and Lord William.” Margaret was delighted with this comparison.