Life has always seemed such a beautiful thing to me--and now it is a hideous thing.

Rilla-my-Rilla, if it weren't for your letters--your dear, bright, merry, funny, comical, believing letters--I think I'd give up.

And Una's! Una is really a little brick, isn't she?
There's a wonderful fineness and firmness under all that shy, wistful girlishness of her.

She hasn't your knack of writing laugh-provoking epistles, but there's something in her letters--I don't know what--that makes me feel at least while I'm reading them, that I could even go to the front.

Not that she ever says a word about my going--or hints that I ought to go--she isn't that kind.