Excuse me, sir--on reflection, you will perceive how different your ways of life are from those which she must tread with me.

You see before you a man who--but I forget; you see him no more, and probably never will.
Your most humble and most obliged, obedient servant, W.W.
VANCE.--"Who never more may trouble you--trouble you! Where have they gone ?" COBBLER.--"Don't know; would you like to take a peep in the crystal--perhaps you've the gift, unbeknown ?" VANCE.--"Not I--bah! Come away, Lionel." "Did not Sophy even leave any message for me ?" asked the boy, sorrowfully.
"To be sure she did; I forgot-no, not exactly a message, but this--I was to be sure to give it to you." And out of his miscellaneous receptacle the Cobbler extracted a little book.

Vance looked and laughed,--"The Butterflies' Ball and the Grasshoppers' Feast." Lionel did not share the laugh.

He plucked the book to himself, and read on the fly-leaf, in a child's irregular scrawl, blistered, too, with the unmistakable trace of fallen tears, these words:-- Do not Scorn it.

I have nothing else I can think of which is All Mine.