ou give your
heart to what concerns me. What pleasure I have in imagining you
interested in my books, looking at my engravings!. . .

_November 12, 3 o'clock._

. . . To-day we have had a march as pleasant as the first one, in weather
of great beauty. We saw, in the blue and rosy distance, the far-off peak
of the Metz hills, and the immense panorama scattered over with
villages, some of which gathered up the morning light, while others were
merely suggested.

This is the broad outline of our existence: for three days we stay close
to the enemy, living in well-constructed shelters which are improved
each time; then we spend three days a little way back; and then three
days in billets in a neighbouring village, generally the same. We even
gradually form habits--very passing ones, but still, we have a certain
amount of contact with the civil population which has been so sorely
tried. The woollen things are very effectual and precious.

. . . We have good people to deal with. The dear woman from whose dwelling
I write to you, and with whom I stayed before, wears herself to death
to give us a little of what reminds us of home.

But, dear mother, what reminds me of home is here in my heart. It is not
eating on plates or sitting on a chair that counts. It is your love,
which I feel so near. . . .

_November 14._

Since half-past eight on the evening of the 12th we have been dragged
about from place to place in the prospect of our taking part in a
violent movement. We left at night, and in the calm of nature my
thoughts cleared themselves a little, after the two days in billets
during which one becomes a little too material. Our reinforcement went
up by stealth. We awaited our orders in a barn, where we slept on the
floor. Then we filed into the woods and fields, which the day, breaking
through grey, red, and purple clouds, slowly lit up, in surroundings the
most romantic and pathetic that could be imagined. In the full daylight
of a charming morning we learnt that the troops ahead of us had
inflicted enormous losses on the enemy, and had even made a very slight
advance. We then returned to our usual posts, and here I am again,
beholding once more the splendour of the French country, so touching in
this grey, windy, and impassioned November, with sunshine thrown in
patches upon infinite horizons.

Dear mother, how beautiful it is, this region of spacious dignity, where
all is noble and proportioned, where outlines a