The direction in which his imagination ran forward, was always that in which his reason pointed; and so long as Gibbie's fancies were bud-blooms upon his obedience, his imagination could not be otherwise than in harmony with his reason.

Imagination is a poor root, but a worthy blossom, and in a nature like Gibbie's its flowers cannot fail to be lovely.

For no outcome of a man's nature is so like himself as his imaginations, except it be his fancies, indeed.

Perhaps his imaginations show what he is meant to be, his fancies what he is making of himself.
In the summer, Mr.Galbraith, all unannounced, reappeared at Glashruach, but so changed that, startled at the sight of him, Ginevra stopped midway in her advance to greet him.

The long thin man was now haggard and worn; he looked sourer too, and more suspicious--either that experience had made him so, or that he was less equal to the veiling of his feelings in dignified indifference.
He was annoyed that his daughter should recognize an alteration in him, and, turning away, leaned his head on the hand whose arm was already supported by the mantelpiece, and took no further notice of her presence; but perhaps conscience also had something to do with this behaviour.