There, at home, she is still good and simple; and there, under the awning by the doorway,--there she still sits, divinely musing.

How often, crook-trunked tree, she looks to thy green boughs; how often, like thee, in her dreams, and fancies, does she struggle for the light,--not the light of the stage-lamps.

Pooh, child! be contented with the lamps, even with the rush-lights.

A farthing candle is more convenient for household purposes than the stars.
Weeks passed, and the stranger did not reappear; months had passed, and his prophecy of sorrow was not yet fulfilled.

One evening Pisani was taken ill.