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The End Of Religion Is Not To Teach Us How To Die, But How To Live.

I Thought Mr. Millward Never Would Cease Telling Us That He Was No Tea-drinker, And That It Was Highly Injurious To Keep Loading The Stomach With Slops To The Exclusion Of More Wholesome Sustenance, And So Give Himself Time To Finish His Fourth Cup.

I Had Been Seasoned By Adversity, And Tutored By Experience, And I Longed To Redeem My Lost Honour In The Eyes Of Those Whose Opinion Was More Than That Of All The World To Me.

The Bud, Though Plucked, Would Not Be Withered, Only Transplanted To A Fitter Soil To Ripen And Blow Beneath A Brighter Sun; And Though I Might Not Cherish And Watch My Child's Unfolding Intellect, He Would Be Snatched Away From All The Suffering And Sins Of Earth; And My Understanding Tells Me This Would Be No Great Evil; But My Heart Shrinks From The Contemplation Of Such A Possibility, And Whispers I Could Not Bear To See Him Die.

But Smiles And Tears Are So Alike With Me, They Are Neither Of Them Confined To Any Particular Feelings: I Often Cry When I Am Happy, And Smile When I Am Sad.