To place myself beyond her influence I formed the habit of leaving our chalet with a book the first thing in the morning, returning only for meals. Uneasy about me, she would remain upon the doorstep until I had disappeared, and very often, at my return, I would find her in the same place, as if she had never lost sight of me. Her interest extended even to my reading. The library at the Alpette contained only a few books, some odd volumes of Buffon and Lacépède, a “Dictionary of Conversation” in fifty volumes, a copy of “Jocelyn,” and a few less important works. Even the Dictionary did not terrify me and I would resolutely carry with me the volumes containing biographical notices, or systems of philosophy. I found myself at ease in the boldest or the most obscure of their conceptions. I understood them before I had completed their demonstration, whether they put the universe in subjection to the ego, or whether they put man in subjection to the universe left to itself. Still, I was inclined to believe that everything depended upon our intelligence, and that it alone, by its sole power breathed existence into things, the laws of which were fixed by it. I have never since been able to regain such facility in moving in the abstract, nor such pleasure and pride. When wearied by these adventures in metaphysics, I would refresh myself with the poetry of “Jocelyn.” It harmonised so perfectly with the nature that surrounded me that it seemed to become its natural expression and I ceased to think of distinguishing between them. How many times, under the pines, have I repeated lines which from that time have been fixed in my memory: I went from tree to tree and loved them all; I took from them a sense of tears and wept; Believing thus, so strong the deep heart’s call. That answering thrills through all their rough bark swept. So greatly did I long to feel pervading everything around me, in the soul of the trees or the spirit of the earth, the love which I refused to receive from the family. When I reached the top of some hill, it was in the apostrophe Oh, mountain tops, pure air and floods of light! that my rapture found expression. The serenity of the night spoke to me of _peace, love, eternity_. I dreamed of Laurence, and had no difficulty in picturing him to myself, such a model of precision did his portrait seem to me: Never the hand of God on fifteen years Had marked a soul more lovely or more human. What more was wanting to feed a love which, having no object, created its image for itself?