wind blows from the marsh-lands of inexactness--not from the mountain
tops of truth.

Once a woman loses a sense of the great value of absolute truthfulness,
she has blurred the clear mirror of her soul.

Put yourself upon a diet of _facts_, my sweet young friend, and cure
this propensity, harmless enough now, but dangerous for your future.

Watch your tongue that it does not say _five or six_ when it should say
_two_, or _yards_ when it should say _inches_.

Even in the smallest matters, practise the habit of being exact.

You will thank me for this advice sometime, even if it seems
unreasonable to you to-day, and remember, I would not take the liberty
or the trouble to so advise you, did I not love you and feel anxious for
your welfare.




To Sybyl Marchmont

_Who Has Learned Her Origin_


Your despairing letter lies before me. I wish you were here, my dear
child, that I might talk from my heart, instead of writing from it. I am
sorry that the secret, so long hidden, has been revealed to you, and in