History, we know, is apt to repeat itself.

When a homemaking aunt scolds a niece for following her evangelistic passion instead of domestic pursuits, her reply is interesting. First, she clarifies that God's individual call on her doesn't condemn those in more conventional roles. Then, she says she can no more ignore the cry of the lost than her aunt can the cry of her child.

What should I do—how should I act now, this very day . . . What she would resolve to do that day did not yet seem quite clear, but something that she could achieve stirred her as with an approaching murmur which would soon gather distinctness.

So to live is heaven; to make undying music in the world.

There are natures in which, if they love us, we are conscious of having a sort of baptism and consecration.

In so complex a thing as human nature, we must consider it is hard to find rules without exception.

There are glances of hatred that stab, and raise no cry of murder.