oderation.

But fate has cruelly tried him. Father Chaufour is but the wreck of a
man. In the place of one of his arms hangs an empty sleeve; his left leg
is made by the turner, and he drags the right along with difficulty; but
above these ruins rises a calm and happy face. While looking upon his
countenance, radiant with a serene energy, while listening to his voice,
the tone of which has, so to speak, the accent of goodness, we see that
the soul has remained entire in the half-destroyed covering. The fortress
is a little damaged, as Father Chaufour says, but the garrison is quite
hearty.

Decidedly, the more I think of this excellent man, the more I reproach
myself for the sort of malediction I bestowed on him when I awoke.

We are generally too indulgent in our secret wrongs toward our neighbor.
All ill-will which does not pass the region of thought seems innocent to
us, and, with our clumsy justice, we excuse without examination the sin
which does not betray itself by action!

But are we then bound to others only by the enforcement of laws? Besides
these external relations, is there not a real relation of feeling between
men? Do we not owe to all those who live under the same heaven as
ourselves the aid not only of our acts but of our purposes? Ought not
every human life to be to us like a vessel that we accompany with our
prayers for a happy voyage? It is not enough that men do not harm one
another; they must also help and love one another! The papal benediction,
'Urbi et orbi'! should be the constant cry from all hearts. To condemn
him who does not deserve it, even in the mind, even by a passing thought,
is to break the great law, that which has established the union of souls
here below, and to which Christ has given the sweet name of charity.

These thoughts came into my mind as I finished dressing, and I said to
myself that Father Chaufour had a right to reparation from me. To make
amends for the feeling of ill-will I had against him just now, I owed him
some explicit proof of sympathy. I heard him humming a tune in his room;
he was at work, and I determined that I would make the first neighborly
call.

Eight o'clock P.M.--I found Father Chaufour at a table lighted by a
little smoky lamp, without a fire, although it is already cold, and
making large pasteboard boxes; he was humming a popular song in a low
tone. I had hardly entered the room when he uttered an exclamation of
surprise and pleasure.

"Eh! i