blue eyes and golden hair; and an old lady, but so witty, so gay and good, that one became irresistibly animated, and, when with her, again young.
The other society of the place, which appeared to me to belong to the sphere of the University, was more grand, more genuine; a simple, unpretending family life. Very few social circles can boast of a female character like that of Clara Monneron, the daughter of Professor Monard, now in Bonn, so noble, so lovely, so gifted, and, at the same time, so perfectly modest. Our souls met one evening, when I was arguing with one of the most distinguished teachers of the Free Church, for the right of the truth-seeking heathen to an entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven: and when I found myself unexpectedly supported by young Mme. Monneron, who, with an expression of surprise in her gentle voice, said:
“What! Do you not believe that every soul which honestly seeks God will ultimately attain to him?”
I saw her but seldom, which I regretted. I went out in many directions; she seldom left home. But it was always a pleasure to me to converse with her. Her soul possessed the same ethereal beauty as her countenance. One recognized the author of the charming little book, “Augustin;” one seemed to hear an angel speak of earthly affairs.
I have also to thank a young lady in Lausanne for the following observation:
“What a number of important facts present themselves in life both with regard to soul and conscience, which are passed over by the historian. It belongs to us women to preserve and implant these sacred
