"Well," said my aunt, "this is his boy - his son. He would be as like his father as it's possible to be, if he was not so like his mother, too."

Poetry's unnat'ral; no man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day.

Time has been lost and opportunity thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may retrieve it.

Not knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never feel certain of not losing himself again.

It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our nature, that, when the heart is touched and softened by some tranquil happiness or affectionate feeling, the memory of the dead comes over it most powerfully and irresistibly. It would seem almost as though our better thoughts and sympathies were charms, in virtue of which the soul is enabled to hold some vague and mysterious intercourse with the spirits of those whom we loved in life. Alas! how often and how long may these patient angels hover around us, watching for the spell which is so soon forgotten!

And it is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh from God, love us.

He thought of the number of girls and women she had seen marry, how many homes with children in them she had seen grow up around her, how she had contentedly pursued her own lone quite path-for him. ~ Stephen speaking of Rachael