Tact, If It Be Genuine, Never Sleeps.

Gentle, Soft Dream, Nestling In My Arms Now, You Will Fly, Too, As Your Sisters Have All Fled Before You: But Kiss Me Before You Go--embrace Me, Jane.

I Shall Be Thirty-one Next Birthday. My Youth Is Gone Like A Dream; And Very Little Use Have I Ever Made Of It. What Have I Done These Last Thirty Years? Precious Little.

It Is A Very Strange Sensation To Inexperience Youth To Feel Itself Quite Alone The World, Cut Adrift From Every Connection, Uncertain Whether The Port To Which It Is Bound Can Be Reached, And Prevented By Many Impediments From Returning To That It Has Quitted. The Charm Of Adventure Sweetens That Sensation, The Glow Of Pride Warms It; But Then The Throb Of Fear Disturbs It; And Fear With Me Became Predominant When Half An Hour Elapsed, And Still I Was Alone.

Who Has Words At The Right Moment?

But What Is So Headstrong As Youth? What So Blind As Inexperience?