I Dare Say There's Many

Margaret Had Always Dreaded Lest Her Courage Should Fail Her In Any Emergency, And She Should Be Proved To Be, What She Dreaded Lest She Was--a Coward. But Now, In This Real Great Time Of Reasonable Fear And Nearness Of Terror, She Forgot Herself, And Felt Only An Intense Sympathy--intense To Painfulness--in The Interests Of The Moment.

It Seems Strange To Think, That What Gives Us Most Hope For The Future Should Be Called Dolores, Said Margaret.

The French Girls Would Tell You, To Believe That You Were Pretty Would Make You So.

In All Disappointments Sympathy Is A Great Balm.

But Margaret Was At An Age When Any Apprehension, Not Absolutely Based On A Knowledge Of Facts, Is Easily Banished For A Time By A Bright Sunny Day, Or Some Happy Outward Circumstance. And When The Brilliant Fourteen Fine Days Of October Came On, Her Cares Were All Blown Away As Lightly As Thistledown, And She Thought Of Nothing But The Glories Of The Forest.