Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

Manhood had come to him, both in character and demeanour, not as it comes to most young lads, an eagerly-desired and presumptuously-asserted claim, but as a rightful inheritance, to be received humbly, and worn simply and naturally.

A preface is usually an excrescence on a good book, and a vain apology for a worthless one;

I have seen many a face that was more good-looking — never one that looked half so good.

What a world it was! Literally swimming in sunshine, from the sparkling sea in the distance, to the beds of marigolds close by — huge marigolds, double and single, mingled with carnations that filled the air with rich autumnal scent, all the more delicious because we feel it is autumnal, and therefore cannot last.

It is not the things we see, but the mind we see them with, which makes the real interest of travelling.

I watched too, with that sort of lonely delight — the one shadow upon it being that it is so lonely — with which all one's life one is accustomed to watch beautiful and vanishing things.

The lad, like many another, owed nothing to his father but his mere existence — Heaven knows whether that gift is oftenest a curse or a boon.

I felt a weight on my chest; a sense of hot indignation which settled down into inconceivable melancholy.

I could hear the voice that, speaking to me, was always tender with pity — yet not pity enough to wound: I could see the peculiar smile just creeping round his grave mouth — that irrepressible smile, indicating the atmosphere of thorough heart-cheerfulness, which ripens all the fruits of a noble nature, and without which the very noblest has about it something unwholesome, blank, and cold.

Oh! my dear children, if you did but know how the heart instinctively turns from a sullen countenance — how hateful is that expression which some like to put on when they are ever so slightly offended, thinking it a point of honour not to smile or speak, but to look sulky for hours — how such a look changes the warmest love of parent, or sister, or friend, into dislike!

Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts not measured words, but pouring them right out, just as they are.

But oh! the blessing it is to have a friend to whom one can speak fearlessly on any subject; with whom one's deepest as well as one's most foolish thoughts come out simply and safely. Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.

They were neither of them in a high sphere of life. Rhoda was a farmer’s daughter, the only one among a troop of great rough brothers, some younger, some older than herself. She was not more than twelve years of age, and yet she had been for a year the little mistress of the family, for her mother had long been dead.

It was delightful to wake up early and refreshed, and come down to this sunshiny, cheerful breakfast-table, where, though nothing was grand, all was thoroughly comfortable.

Forgotten? No, we never do forget:
We let the years go; wash them clean with tears,
Leave them to bleach out in the open day,
Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes,
Till we shall dare unfold them without pain, — But we forget not, never can forget.