Opposite to us a most beautiful tenor was declaiming the enemy's
Christmas. Much farther off, beyond the ridges, where our lines begin
again, the _Marseillaise_ replied. The marvellous night lavished on us
her stars and meteors. Hymns, hymns, from end to end.

It was the eternal longing for harmony, the indomitable claim for order
and beauty and concord.

As for me, I cherished old memories in meditating on the sweetness of
the Childhood of Christ. The freshness, the dewy youthfulness of this
French music, were very moving to me. I remembered the celebrated
_Sommeil des Pèlerins_ and the shepherds' chorus. A phrase which is sung
by the Virgin thrilled me: '_Le Seigneur, pour mon fils, a béni cet
asile_.' The melody rang in my ears while I was in that little house,
with its neighbour in flames, and itself given over to a precarious
fate.

I thought of all happinesses bestowed; I thought that you were perhaps
at this moment calling down a blessing upon my abode. The sky was so
lovely that it seemed to smile favourably upon all petition; but what I
want strength to ask for perpetually is consistent wisdom--wisdom which,
human though it may be, is none the less safe from anything that may
assail it.

The sun is flooding the country and yet I write by candle-light; now and
then I go out into the back gardens to see the sun. All is light, peace
falling from on high upon the deserted country.

I come back to our room, where the brass of the pretty Meusian beds and
the carved wood of the cupboards shine in the half-light. All these