Or-but this more rarely happened-she would be convulsed with a rage of grief, and sob out her love for her mother, in broken words, and seem intent on proving that she had a heart, by breaking it.

Trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when the latter actually appeared.

A writer of story books! What kind of business in life-what mode of glorifying God, or being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation-may that be? Why, the degenerate fellow might as well have been a fiddler!

The marble keeps merely a cold and sad memory of a man who would else be forgotten. No man who needs a monument ever ought to have one.

The trees reflected in the river - they are unconscious of a spiritual world so near to them. So are we.

To do nothing is the way to be nothing.

The sorrow that lay cold in her mother's heart... converted it into a tomb.