Good Night, Belovedest. Your Sleep Will Be

I Wonder What A Soul…a Person's Soul…would Look Like,' Said Priscilla Dreamily. 'like That, I Should Think,' Answered Anne, Pointing To A Radiance Of Sifted Sunlight Streaming Through A Birch Tree. 'only With Shape And Features Of Course. I Like To Fancy Souls As Being Made Of Light. And Some Are All Shot Through With Rosy Stains And Quivers…and Some Have A Soft Glitter Like Moonlight On The Sea…and Some Are Pale And Transparent Like Mist At Dawn.

If You Can't Be Cheerful, Be As Cheerful As You Can.

…i Think,' Concluded Anne, Hitting On A Very Vital Truth, 'that We Always Love Best The People Who Need Us.

Comedy And Tragedy Are So Mixed Up In Life, Gilbert. The Only Thing That Haunts Me Is That Tale Of The Two Who Lived Together Fifty Years And Hated Each Other All That Time. I Can't Believe They Really Did. Somebody Has Said That 'hate Is Only Love That Has Missed Its Way.' I Feel Sure That Under The Hatred They Really Loved Each Other . . . Just As I Really Loved You All Those Years I Thought I Hated You . . . And I Think Death Would Show It To Them. I'm Glad I Found Out In Life.

As She Walked Along She Dramatized The Night. There Was About It A Wild, Lawless Charm That Appealed To A Certain Wild, Lawless Strain Hidden Deep In Emily’s Nature—the Strain Of The Gypsy And The Poet, The Genius And The Fool.