But The Cloud Never Comes In That

What Could He Mean By Speaking So, As If I Were Always Thinking That He Cared For Me, When I Know He Does Not; He Cannot. ... But I Won't Care For Him. I Surely Am Mistress Enough Of Myself To Control This Wild, Strange, Miserable Feeling

Yes! He Knew How She Would Love. He Had Not Loved Her Without Gaining That Instinctive Knowledge Of What Capabilities Were In Her. Her Soul Would Walk In Glorious Sunlight If Any Man Was Worthy, By His Power Of Loving, To Win Back Her Love.

But The Trees Were Gorgeous In Their Autumnal Leafiness - The Warm Odours Of Flowers And Herb Came Sweet Upon The Sense.

But Margaret Was At An Age When Any Apprehension, Not Absolutely Based On A Knowledge Of Facts, Is Easily Banished For A Time By A Bright Sunny Day, Or Some Happy Outward Circumstance. And When The Brilliant Fourteen Fine Days Of October Came On, Her Cares Were All Blown Away As Lightly As Thistledown, And She Thought Of Nothing But The Glories Of The Forest.

She Would Fain Have Caught At The Skirts Of That Departing Time, And Prayed It To Return, And Give Her Back What She Had Too Little Valued While It Was Yet In Her Possession. What A Vain Show Life Seemed! How Unsubstantial, And Flickering, And Flitting! It Was As If From Some Aerial Belfry, High Up Above The Stir And Jar Of The Earth, There Was A Bell Continually Tolling, ‘all Are Shadows!—all Are Passing!—all Is Past!