I belong to them, and they belong to me, by ties without number, by the many kind words in many troubles, by the one roof that sheltered us a hundred years, and the grave where our bones lie together till the day of judgment."* * The French peasant often thinks half a sentence, and utters the other half aloud, and so breaks air in the middle of a thought.

Probably Jacintha's whole thought, if we had the means of knowing it, would have run like this--"Besides, I have another reason: I could not be so comfortable myself elsewhere--for, look you"-- Jacintha clasped her hands, and her black eyes shone out warm through the dew.

Riviere's glistened too.
"That is well said," he cried; "it is nobly said: yet, after all, these are ties that owe their force to the souls they bind.

How often have such bonds round human hearts proved ropes of sand! They grapple YOU like hooks of steel; because you are steel yourself to the backbone.

I admire you, Jacintha.