We are all of us imaginative in some form or other, for images are the brood of desire.

Leisure is gone,--gone where the spinning-wheels are gone, and the pack-horses, and the slow wagons, and the peddlers, who brought bargains to the door on sunny afternoons.

We reap what we sow, but nature has love over and above that justice, and gives us shadow and blossom and fruit, that spring from no planting of ours.

Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. Even with no motive to be false, it is very hard to say the exact truth.

Hurt, he'll never be hurt--he's made to hurt other people.

Doubtless a great anguish may do the work of years, and we may come out from that baptism of fire with a soul full of new awe and new pity.

Saints and martyrs had never interested Maggie so much as sages and poets.