In turning to the world within us, we grow blind to this beautiful world without; in studying ourselves as men, we almost forget to look up to heaven, and warm to the smile of God." The philosopher mechanically shrugged his shoulders, as he always did when another man moralized,--especially if the moralizer were a priest; but there was no irony in his smile, as he answered thoughtfully,-- "There is some truth in what you say.

I own that we live too much as if we were all brain.

Knowledge has its penalties and pains, as well as its prizes." "That is just what I want you to say to Leonard." "How have you settled the object of your journey ?" "I will tell you as we walk down to him after tea.

At present, I am rather too much occupied with you." "Me?
The tree is formed--try only to bend the young twig!" "Trees are trees, and twigs twigs," said the parson, dogmatically; "but man is always growing till he falls into the grave.

I think I have heard you say that you once had a narrow escape of a prison ?" "Very narrow." "Just suppose that you were now in that prison, and that a fairy conjured up the prospect of this quiet home in a safe land; that you saw the orange-trees in flower, felt the evening breeze on your cheek; beheld your child gay or sad, as you smiled or knit your brow; that within this phantom home was a woman, not, indeed, all your young romance might have dreamed of, but faithful and true, every beat of her heart all your own,--would you not cry from the depth of your dungeon, 'O fairy! such a change were a paradise!' Ungrateful man! you want interchange for your mind, and your heart should suffice for all!" Riccabocca was touched and silent.
"Come hither, my child," said Mr.Dale, turning round to Violante, who stood still among the flowers, out of hearing, but with watchful eyes.
"Come hither," he said, opening his arms.
Violante bounded forward, and nestled to the good man's heart.
"Tell me, Violante, when you are alone in the fields or the garden, and have left your father looking pleased and serene, so that you have no care for him at your heart,--tell me, Violante, though you are all alone, with the flowers below, and the birds singing overhead, do you feel that life itself is happiness or sorrow ?" "Happiness!" answered Violante, half shutting her eyes, and in a measured voice.
"Can you explain what kind of happiness it is ?" "Oh, no, impossible! and it is never the same.