For I am so far a convert as to admit that English women have a talent for this department.  True, they look upon the child only from the point of view of material well-being; but where this is concerned, their arrangements are admirable.  My children must always be bare-legged and wear woollen socks.  There shall be no swaddling nor bandages; on the other hand, they shall never be left alone.  The helplessness of the French infant in its swaddling-bands means the liberty of the nurse—­that is the whole explanation.  A mother, who is really a mother, is never free.

There is my answer to your question why I do not write.  Besides the management of the estate, I have the upbringing of two children on my hands.

The art of motherhood involves much silent, unobtrusive self-denial, an hourly devotion which finds no detail too minute.  The soup warming before the fire must be watched.  Am I the kind of woman, do you suppose, to shirk such cares?  The humblest task may earn a rich harvest of affection.  How pretty is a child’s laugh when he finds the food to his liking!  Armand has a way of nodding his head when he is pleased that is worth a lifetime of adoration.  How could I leave to any one else the privilege and delight, as well as the responsibility, of blowing on the spoonful of soup which is too hot for my little Nais, my nursling of seven months ago, who still remembers my breast?  When a nurse has allowed a child to burn its tongue and lips with scalding food, she tells the mother, who hurries up to see what is wrong, that the child cried from hunger.  How could a mother sleep in peace with the thought that a breath, less pure than her own, has cooled her child’s food—­the mother whom Nature has made the direct vehicle of food to infant lips.  To mince a chop for Nais, who has just cut her last teeth, and mix the meat, cooked to a turn, with potatoes, is a work of patience, and there are times, indeed, when none but a mother could succeed in making an impatient child go through with its meal.

No number of servants, then, and no English nurse can dispense a mother from taking the field in person in that daily contest, where gentleness alone should grapple with the little griefs and pains of childhood.  Louise, the care of these innocent darlings is a work to engage the whole soul.  To whose hand and eyes, but one’s own, intrust the task of feeding, dressing, and putting to bed?  Broadly speaking, a crying child is the unanswerable condemnation of mother or nurse, except when the cry is the outcome of natural pain.  Now that I have two to look after (and a third on the road), they occupy all my thoughts.  Even you, whom I love so dearly, have become a memory to me.