We Are Ourselves Our Happiness.

In Came ... A Baby, Eloquent As Infancy Usually Is, And Like Most Youthful Orators, More Easily Heard Than Understood.

And This Is Woman's Fate: All Her Affections Are Called Into Life By Winning Flatteries, And Then Thrown Back Upon Themselves To Perish; And Her Heart, Her Trusting Heart, Filled With Weak Tenderness, Is Left To Bleed Or Break!

There Are Words To Paint The Misery Of Love, But None To Paint Its Happiness.

It Is Curious How Inseparable Eating And Kindness Are With Some People.

Our First Love-letter ... There Is So Much To Be Said, And Which No Words Seems Exactly To Say - The Dread Of Saying Too Much Is So Nicely Balanced By The Fear Of Saying Too Little. Hope Borders On Presumption, And Fear On Reproach.