At the moment, I write to you in the silvery light of a sun rising over
the valley mists; we are conscious of the sleeping country for forty
kilometres around, and battle hardly disturbs the religious gravity of
the scene.

Do love my proposed picture! It makes a bond with my true career. If it
is vouchsafed to me to return, the form of the picture may change, but
its essence is contained in the sketch.

_Mid-day._--Splendid All Saints' Day profaned by violence.

Glory of the day. . . .


_November 2, All Souls'._

Splendid feast of sun and of joy in the glorious beauty of a Meusian
landscape. Hope confines itself in the heart, not daring to insult the
grief of those for whom this day is perhaps the first day of
bereavement.

Dear beloved mother, twenty-eight years ago you were in a state of
mourning and hope to-day, the agony is as full of hope as then. It is at
a different age that these new trials occur, but a whole life of
submission prepares the way to supreme wisdom.

What joy is this perpetual thrill in the heart of Nature! That same
horizon of which I had watched the awakening, I saw last night bathe
itself in rosy light; then the full moon went up into a tender sky,