must end my letter, but be sure that in every minute of the day or the night my thought, my very heart, is with you, with our dear children, to cry to you, Courage! to cry to you again and always, Courage!
I embrace you as I love you, with all the power of my love, as I embrace also our dear children.
Your devoted
Alfred.
Kisses to all.
20 January, 1897.
My dear and good Lucie:
I wrote to you at length on the arrival of your letters. When a man has borne such suffering and for so long there are times when all that boils within him must escape, as the steam lifts the safety-valve in an over-*heated boiler.
I have told you that I had an equal confidence in the efforts of one and all. I will not go back to that.
But I have told you, too, that even if my heart never felt one moment of discouragement any more than should yours, or the hearts of any of our family, yet the energies of the heart, of the brain, have their limits in a situation as atrocious as it is incredible; the hours become heavier and heavier, and the very minutes no longer pass by,
I know what you are suffering, too, what you are all suffering, and the thought is horrible.
Truly, you know all this, but if I tell it to you again it is because we must now arise to face the situation; because we must face it bravely, frankly. For on the one hand there can be but one end to our atrocious tortures—the discovery of the truth, all the truth, full and
