iliated for my sins, without crushing me, or driving me to
despair; he showed me the futility of all human things, the sadness and
emptiness of all pleasures arising from vanity and self-love.... Indeed,
during a few moments, I thought seriously of consecrating my life
entirely to God, and of becoming a gray nun in the convent under the
Abbe Baudoin's direction.

I was measuring my cell, and counting the number of steps I could take
in my new asylum; I thought my resolution nearly taken, when my maid
entered and began to tell me some trifle concerning the prince royal's
huntsman!... The chain of my holy thoughts was immediately broken, and I
strove in vain to relink it; I could remember but one point, and that
was, that the Abbe Baudoin had told me it was possible to secure one's
salvation even while living in the great world, and that this difficult
struggle, when brought to a victorious conclusion, was as pleasing to
God as that virtue which had never dared the combat.

Why, then, should I throw myself into a world of sacrifices, whose
extent is unknown to me, and perhaps beyond my strength? I will follow
my destiny, while maintaining the purity of my conscience. Yes, I swear
never to commit any action unworthy of the name of Krasinski. If I sin,
alas! it is through too much pride; my desires are placed very high; the
Abbe Baudoin does not blame me; he says that ambition is criminal only
when it leads us from the path of virtue.... What God requires, is a
heart prepared for every sacrifice--a will ready to yield all for His
sake; and I feel that I possess this disposition; I experience an
indefinable quietude, and my soul is comforted. This week has seemed to
me a foretaste of heaven; I have seen no one but the nuns and my
confessor, the sole confidant of my thoughts and feelings, and the time
has passed rapidly and without tedium. To-day I am once more to find
myself in the great world. I am to witness the ceremonies of Holy
Thursday in the castle. I am very curious to see this religious
solemnity.

NOVEMBER.

Low the leaves lie in the forest; on the damp earth, brown and chill,
Gather near the evening shadows. Hark! the wind is sorrowing still.
Vanished are the pine-crowned mountains, hidden in a dusky cloud;
See the rain, it falleth ever from the wan and dreary sky:
Rusheth on the swollen streamlet, wildly whirling, foaming by;
And the branches, leafless waving, in the Fall wind low are