I take you from your father's house, from your mother's arms, from the "God speed" of your friends.

That is how Alvan's wife should be presented to the world.' Clotilde's epistle to the baroness was composed, approved, and despatched.

To a frigid eye it read as more hypocritical than it really was; for supposing it had to be written, the language of the natural impulse called up to write it was necessarily in request, and that language is easily overdone, so as to be discordant with the situation, while it is, as the writer feels, a fairly true and well-formed expression of the pretty impulse.

But wiser is it always that the star in the ascendant should not address the one waning.

Hardly can a word be uttered without grossly wounding.