To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.

Then followed that beautiful season... Summer.... Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

Our hearts are lamps for ever burning.

Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.

When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it.

Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again.

The story, from beginning to end, I found again in a heart of a friend.