Thank you, Sir--thank you.
That is a pleasant liquor, Mr.Burt.

H'm, ha! a very pleasant liquor.
Good-afternoon, Mr.Burt; a very good day, Sir.

H'm, ha!" As Hope left her grandfather, Mrs.Simcoe was sitting at her window, which looked over the lawn in front of the house upon which Hope presently appeared.

It was already toward sunset, and the tender golden light streamed upon the landscape like a visible benediction.

A few rosy clouds lay in long, tranquil lines across the west, and the great trees bathed in the sweet air with conscious pleasure.
As Hope stood with folded hands looking toward the sunset, she began unconsciously to repeat some of the lines that always lay in her mind like invisible writing, waiting only for the warmth of a strong emotion to bring them legibly out: "Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave; Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain, it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me; They may crush, but they shall not contemn; They may torture, but shall not subdue me; 'Tis of thee that I think, not of them." At the same moment Mrs.Simcoe was closing her window high over Hope's head.