A Day Wasted On Others Is Not

All Other Swindlers Upon Earth Are Nothing To The Self-swindlers, And With Such Pretences Did I Cheat Myself.

Spring Flew Swiftly By, And Summer Came; And If The Village Had Been Beautiful At First, It Was Now In The Full Glow And Luxuriance Of Its Richness. The Great Trees, Which Had Looked Shrunken And Bare In The Earlier Months, Had Now Burst Into Strong Life And Health; And Stretching Forth Their Green Arms Over The Thirsty Ground, Converted Open And Naked Spots Into Choice Nooks, Where Was A Deep And Pleasant Shade From Which To Look Upon The Wide Prospect, Steeped In Sunshine, Which Lay Stretched Out Beyond.

I See That I Hold A Sanctuary In Their Hearts, And In The Hearts Of Their Descendants, Generations Hence. I See Her, An Old Woman, Weeping For Me On The Anniversary Of This Day. I See Her And Her Husband, Their Course Done, Lying Side By Side In Their Last Earthly Bed, And I Know That Each Was Not More Honoured And Held Sacred In The Other's Soul, Than I Was In The Souls Of Both.

I Am Well Aware That I Am The 'umblest Person Going. . . . My Mother Is Likewise A Very 'umble Person. We Live In A 'umble Abode.

It Was The Momentary Yielding Of A Nature That Had Been Disappointed From The Dawn Of Its Perceptions, But Had Not Quite Given Up All Its Hopeful Yearnings Yet.