must be silent. So what I will repeat to you is simply this: it is the invariable, the ever-ardent, persistent cry of my soul, "Courage, courage!" When you consider the end we are to attain you should count neither time nor sufferings. We must wait with confidence until it shall be attained.
I embrace you, as I love you, with all the power of my love, and so also I embrace our dear children.
Your devoted
Alfred.
My best kisses to your dear parents, to all of our family.
5 July, 1897.
My dear and good Lucie:
I have just received your letters of April with those of May, and with all the letters of the family; with all the strength of my soul I add mine to your most hearty good wishes for Marie's happiness. Kiss her for me and tell her, too, that I found some tears—I who no longer know how to weep—in thinking of her joy that is mingled with so much suffering.
I wish with all the strength of my soul, for you, my poor darling, that the end of this terrible martyrdom may be near, and if one who has suffered so deeply can still pray, I join my hands in one last prayer that I address to all those to whom I have appealed, that they may bring you a co-operation more ardent, more generous than ever in the work of discovering the truth. Moreover, I am certain that you have this co-operation, have it fully, ungrudgingly, . . . and I hope with all that my heart contains of tenderness for you, of affection
