moments experienced by us too rarely in our weakness, but they suffice
to let us discover in ourselves, through the blows and buffetings of our
poor human nature, a certain tendency towards what is permanent and
what is final; and we realise the splendid inheritance of divinity to
which we are the heirs.

* * * * *

Dear mother, what a happy day I have just spent with you.

There were three of us: we two and the pretty landscape from my window.

Seen from here, winter gives a woolly and muffled air to things. Two
clouds, or rather mists, wrap the near hillside without taking any
delicacy from the drawing of the shrubs on the crest; the sky is light
green. All is filtered. Everything sleeps. This is the time for
night-attacks, the cries of the charge, the watch in the trenches. Let
our prayers of every moment ask for the end of this state of things. Let
us wish for rest for all, a great amends, recompense for all grief and
pain and separation.

YOUR SON.


_Sunday, November 22, 9.30._

I write to you this morning from my favourite place, without anything
having happened since last night that is worth recording--save perhaps
the thousand flitting nothings in the landscape. I got up with the sun,
which now floods all the space with silver. The cold is still keen, but