He quietly put her arm through his, led her off, worn out and unresisting, drove her home, delivered her and Valencia into Mary's keeping, and then asked Tom to stay and sit with him.
"I hope I've no very bad conscience, boy; but Mary's busy with the poor young thing, mere child she is, too, to go through such a night; and, somehow, I don't like to be left alone after such a sight as that!" * * * * * "Tom!" said Mark, as they sat smoking in silence, after breakfast, in the study.

"Tom!" "Yes, sir!" "That was an awful death-bed, Tom!" Tom was silent.
"I don't mean that he died hard, as we say; but so young, Tom.

And I suppose poets' souls are worth something, like other people's--perhaps more.

I can't understand 'em; but my Mary seems to, and people, like her, who think a poet the finest thing in the world.

I laugh at it all when I am jolly, and call it sentiment and cant: but I believe that they are nearer heaven than I am: though I think they don't quite know where heaven is, nor where" (with a wicked wink, in spite of the sadness of his tone)--"where they themselves are either." "I'll tell you, sir.