There Is No Ghost So Difficult To

Seated In My Library At Night, And Looking On The Silent Faces Of My Books, I Am Occasionally Visited By A Strange Sense Of The Supernatural.

I Have Learned To Prize The Quiet, Lightning Deed, Not The Applauding Thunder At Its Heels That Men Call Fame.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October.

An Old Novel Has A History Of Its Own.

Love Is But The Discovery Of Ourselves In Others, And The Delight In The Recognition.