If there are words and wrongs like knives, whose deep-inflicted lacerations never heal--cutting injuries and insults of serrated and poison-dripping edge--so, too, there are consolations of tone too fine for the ear not fondly and for ever to retain their echo: caressing kindnesses--loved, lingered over through a whole life, recalled with unfaded tenderness, and answering the call with undimmed shine, out of that raven cloud foreshadowing Death himself.

I have been told since that Dr.Bretton was not nearly so perfect as I thought him: that his actual character lacked the depth, height, compass, and endurance it possessed in my creed.

I don't know: he was as good to me as the well is to the parched wayfarer--as the sun to the shivering jailbird.

I remember him heroic.

Heroic at this moment will I hold him to be.
He asked me, smiling, why I cared for his letter so very much.