There is a little farm-graveyard overgrown with privet and wild grape-vines, and a flattened grave where he was laid to rest; and only a few who knew him when they were children care to go there, and think of what he was to them.

But it was not in the far days of Chivalry alone, I think, that true and proud souls have stood in the world unwelcome, and, hurt to the quick, have turned away and dumbly died.

Let it be.

Their lives are not lost, thank God! I meant only to ask you, How can I help it, if the people in my story seem coarse to you,--if the hero, unlike all other heroes, stopped to count the cost before he fell in love,--if it made his fingers thrill with pleasure to touch a full pocket-book as well as his mistress's hand,--not being withal, this Stephen Holmes, a man to be despised?
A hero, rather, of a peculiar type,--a man, more than other men: the very mould of man, doubt it who will, that women love longest and most madly.

Of course, if I could, I would have blotted out every meanness before I showed him to you; I would have told you Margret was an impetuous, whole-souled woman, glad to throw her life down for her father, without one bitter thought of the wife and mother she might have been; I would have painted her mother tender, (as she was,) forgetting how pettish she grew on busy days: but what can I do?
I must show you men and women as they are in that especial State of the Union where I live.