We run quietly down-stairs, and out into as August a morning as God ever gave his poor pensioners.
We walk along soberly and silently, hand-in-hand, as we used to do when we were little children.

My heart is very, _very_ full.

I may be going to be happy in my new life.

I fully expect to be.

At nineteen, happiness seems one's right, one's matter of course; but it will not be in the same way.