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205 STRAIT IS THE GATE

“How can I tell?” I answered; and I added: “And you, my dear, you yourself, and in spite of yourself, can no longer act otherwise than as if you were inspired by the liveliest faith. And I should not love you if you were different.”


No, Jerome, no, it is not after a future recompense that our virtue is striving; it is not for recompense that our love is seeking. A generous soul is hurt by the idea of being rewarded for its efforts; nor does it consider virtue an adornment; no, virtue is the form of its beauty.


Papa is not so well again; nothing serious, I hope, but he has been obliged to go back to his milk diet for the last three days. Yesterday evening, Jerome had just gone up to his room; Papa, who was sitting up with me for a little, left me alone for a few minutes. I was sitting on the sofa, or rather - a thing I hardly ever do— I was lying down, I don't know why. The lamp-shade was shading my eyes and the upper part of my body from the light; I was mechanically looking at my feet, which showed a little below my dress in the light thrown upon them by the lamp. When Papa came back, he stood for a few moments at the door, staring at

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