When You Ask One Friend To Dine,

Every Dew-drop And Rain-drop Had A Whole Heaven Within It.

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.

Sunday Is The Golden Clasp That Binds Together The Volume Of The Week.

The Atmosphere Breathes Rest And Comfort, And The Many Chambers Seem Full Of Welcomes.

The Hearts Of Some Women Tremble Like Leaves At Every Breath Of Love Which Reaches Them, And They Are Still Again. Others, Like The Ocean, Are Moved Only By The Breath Of A Storm, And Not So Easily Lulled To Rest.