Men Judge Us By The Success Of

In Sunshine, In Prosperity, The Flowers Are Very Well; But How Many Wet Days Are There In Life—november Seasons Of Disaster, When A Man's Hearth And Home Would Be Cold Indeed, Without The Clear, Cheering Gleam Of Intellect.

You, Jane, I Must Have You For My Own--entirely My Own.

Life Is So Constructed, That The Event Does Not, Cannot, Will Not, Match The Expectation.

Alas! Never Had I Loved Him So Well!

I Scorn Your Idea Of Love,' I Could Not Help Saying, As I Rose Up And Stood Before Him, Leaning My Back Against The Rock. 'i Scorn The Counterfeit Sentiment You Offer: Yes, St. John, And I Scorn You When You Offer It.