not grow slack nor my hand
weary.

The scenery in the Black Mountains is very grand, and reminds one of the
lofty ranges of mountains around the Yosemite Valley in California. In
the distance are the snow-capped Pyrenees, producing a solemn beauty, a
profound solitude. We used to go every evening where we could see the
sun set and watch the changing shadows in the broad valley below.
Another great pleasure here was watching the gradual development of my
first grandchild, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, born at Paris, on the 3d of
May, 1882. She was a fine child; though only three months old her head
was covered with dark hair, and her large blue eyes looked out with
intense earnestness from beneath her well-shaped brow.

One night I had a terrible fright. I was the only person sleeping on
the ground floor of the chateau, and my room was at the extreme end of
the building, with the staircase on the other side. I had frequently
been cautioned not to leave my windows open, as someone might get in.
But, as I always slept with an open window, winter and summer, I thought
I would take the risk rather than endure a feeling of suffocation night
after night. The blinds were solid, and to close them was to exclude all
the air, so I left them open about a foot, braced by an iron hook. A
favorite resort for a pet donkey was under my window, where he had
uniformly slept in profound silence. But one glorious moonlight night,
probably to arouse me to enjoy with him the exquisite beauty of our
surroundings, he put his nose through this aperture and gave one of the
most prolonged, resounding brays I ever heard. Startled from a deep
sleep, I was so frightened that at first I could not move. My next
impulse was to rush out and arouse the family, but, seeing a dark head
in the window, I thought I would slam down the heavy sash and check the
intruder before starting. But just as I approached the window, another
agonizing bray announced the innocent character of my midnight visitor.
Stretching out of the window to frighten him away, a gentleman in the
room above me, for the same purpose, dashed down a pail of water, which
the donkey and I shared equally. He ran off at a double-quick pace,
while I made a hasty retreat.

On August 20, I returned to Toulouse and our quiet convent. The sisters
gave me a most affectionate welcome and I had many pleasant chats,
sitting in the gardens, with the priests and professors. Several times
my daughter and I at