The girl died without profiting by this official apothegm.

The boy found it burned ineffaceably upon his brain.

Now, after a lapse of more than forty years, it seemed the thing that he remembered best about Ireland.
He had drifted westward as an unconsidered, unresisting item in that vast flight of the famine years.

Others whom he rubbed against in that melancholy exodus, and deemed of much greater promise than himself, had done badly.

Somehow he did well.