Blackened skeleton arms of wood by the wayside pointed upward to the convent, as if the ghosts of former travellers, overwhelmed by the snow, haunted the scene of their distress. Icicle-hung caves and cellars built for refuges from sudden storms, were like so many whispers of the perils of the place; never-resting wreaths and mazes of mist wandered about, hunted by a moaning wind; and snow, the besetting danger of the mountain, against which all its defences were taken, drifted sharply down.

To have a cricket on the hearth is the luckiest thing in all the world!

I know enough of the world now to have almost lost the capacity of being much surprised by anything

God bless us, every one!

Tongue; well that's a wery good thing when it an't a woman.

No space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused

Your voice and music are the same to me.