To meet the creature I described to him the other night, waiting for me to come into her life, and to be to her all I could be to the woman I should love.
But she has never come; never will, now; still, there is a sort of rest to me in thinking of rest.

Hearth, home, wife, children; the worn old staff resting in the corner, never to wander again.

What a strange thing it is that men should have all these, and more, and yet never see that they have the simple elements of earthly happiness, if they would but use them.

And we, outcasts and wanderers, children of sin and darkness, in whose hands one commandment seems hardly less fragile than another, would give anything--had we anything to give--for the happiness of a home, to call our own.

How strange it is that what I said to Isaacs should be true.