When I rose this morning, I did not think that I should have cried before night; indeed, nothing would have seemed to me so unlikely.

Cry! on the day of Roger's first back-coming! absurd! And yet now the morning is still quite young, and I have wept abundantly.
I am always rather good at crying.

Tears with me do not argue any very profound depth of affliction.

My tears have always been somewhat near my eyes, a fact well known to the boys, whom my pearly drops always leave as stolid and unfeeling as they found them.

But the case is different with Roger.