There is something--we do not quite understand about it yet--which is a band of more than steel between two close together, and which holds back the one sometimes from even the grip of that force seldom denied, which is named Death, the one who fills the graveyards.
And, one evening, there was a man in deep trouble, and in the morning he sat beside a bed in which was his small wife and beside her a tiny red thing, "rather underdone," he said, in the buoyant reaction which came upon him, for that was Harlson's way when he had emerged from trouble; and the small red thing was the son of the two of them.

And who can tell what the man said to the woman.

There are precious, sacred overflows of love, sweet outbursts of what makes life worth the living, never yet in words for all, never yet written in black upon some white surface.

There is a sanctuary.
It was a healthy baby, and the mother was soon herself, and the most foolish of small women over it.

I rather liked the young animal myself, for they let me see it when its days were few, and it clutched at my fingers in a way that won me.