Even the boy cried when he heard he was gone, for to him too he had always given a kind word, coming and going.

A certain little runnel of verse flowed no more through the pages of "The Firefly," and in a month there was not the shadow of Tom upon his age.

But the print of him was deep in the heart of Letty, and not shallow in the affection of Mary; nor were such as these, insignificant records for any one to leave behind him, as records go.

Happy was he to have left behind him any love, especially such a love as Letty bore him! For what is the loudest praise of posterity to the quietest love of one's own generation?
For his mother, her memory was mostly in her temper.

She had never understood her wayward child, just because she had given him her waywardness, and not parted with it herself, so that between them the two made havoc of love.