This Child Whom We Love,

Youth, Even In Its Sorrows, Always Has A Brilliancy Of Its Own.

The Poor Man Shuddered, Overflowed With An Angelic Joy; He Declared In His Transport That This Would Last Through Life; He Said To Himself That He Really Had Not Suffered Enough To Deserve Such Radiant Happiness, And He Thanked God, In The Depths Of His Soul, For Having Permitted That He, A Miserable Man, Should Be So Loved By This Innocent Being.

One Of The Hardest Labours Of The Just Man Is To Expunge From His Soul A Malevolence Which It Is Difficult To Efface.

You Ask Me What Forces Me To Speak? A Strange Thing; My Conscience.

Do Not Let It Be Your Aim To Be Something, But To Be Someone.