[Sidenote: A childlike nature.] Mrs. Pennel had one of those natures, gentle, trustful, and hopeful, because not very deep; she was one of the little children of the world, whose faith rests on childlike ignorance, and who know not the deeper needs of deeper natures; such see only the sunshine, and forget the storm. * * * * * [Sidenote: Unintended hurts.] All that there was developed of him, at present, was a fund of energy, self-esteem, hope, courage, and daring, the love of action, life, and adventure; his life was in the outward and present, not in the inward and reflective; he was a true ten-year-old boy, in its healthiest and most animal perfection. What she was, the small pearl with the golden hair, with her frail and high-strung organization, her sensitive nerves, her half-spiritual fibres, her ponderings, and marvels, and dreams, her power of love and yearning for self-devotion, our reader may, perhaps, have seen. But if ever two children, or two grown people, thus organized, are thrown into intimate relations, it follows, from the very laws of their being, that one must hurt the other, simply by being itself; one must always hunger for what the other has not to give. * * * * * [Sidenote: Real love.] “I always thought that my wife must be one of the sort of women who pray.” “And why?” said Mara, in surprise. “Because I need to be loved a great deal, and it is only that kind who pray who know how to love _really_.” LITTLE FOXES. [Sidenote: Difficulty of self-knowledge.] It is astonishing how much we think about ourselves, yet to how little purpose; how very clever people will talk and wonder about themselves and each other, not knowing how to use either themselves or each other,—not having as much practical philosophy in the matter of their own character and that of their friends as they have in respect to the screws of their gas-fixtures or the management of their water-pipes. * * * * * [Sidenote: Reserve not understood.] There are in every family circle individuals whom a certain sensitiveness of nature inclines to quietness and reserve; and there are very well-meaning families where no such quietness and reserve is possible. Nobody can be let alone, nobody may have a secret, nobody can move in any direction, without a host of inquiries and comments: “Who is your letter from? Let’s see.”—“My letter is from So-and-so.”—“He writing to you! I didn’t know that. What’s he writing about?”—“Where did you go yesterday? What did you buy? What did you give for it? What are you going to do with it?”—“Seems to me that’s an odd way to do. I shouldn’t do so.”—“Look here, Mary; Sarah’s going to have a dress of silk tissue this spring. Now I think they’re too dear, don’t you?”