Secrets Are Generally Terrible. Beauty Is Not

Those Who Can Soar To The Highest Heights Can Also Plunge To The Deepest Depths And The Natures Which Enjoy Most Keenly Are Those Which Also Suffer Most Sharply.

For There Is No Bond More Lasting Than That Formed By The Mutual Confidences Of That Magic Time When Youth Is Slipping From The Sheath Of Childhood And Beginning To Wonder What Lies For It Beyond Those Misty Hills That Bound The Golden Road.

I Heard Someone Say Once That The Years From Fifteen To Nineteen Are The Best Years In A Girl's Life.

There Was No Mistaking Her Sincerity--it Breathed In Every Tone Of Her Voice. Both Marilla And Mrs. Lynde Recognized Its Unmistakable Ring. But The Former Understood In Dismay That Anne Was Actually Enjoying Her Valley Of Humiliation--was Reveling In The Thoroughness Of Her Abasement. Where Was The Wholesome Punishment Upon Which She, Marilla, Had Plumed Herself? Anne Had Turned It Into A Species Of Positive Pleasure.

Perhaps, After All, Romance Did Not Come Into One’s Life With Pomp And Blare, Like A Gay Knight Riding Down; Perhaps It Crept To One’s Side Like An Old Friend Through Quiet Ways; Perhaps It Revealed Itself In Seeming Prose, Until Some Sudden Shaft Of Illumination Flung Athwart Its Pages Betrayed The Rhythm And The Music, Perhaps . . . Perhaps . . . Love Unfolded Naturally Out Of A Beautiful Friendship, As A Golden-hearted Rose Slipping From Its Green Sheath.