It is the innermost fact of life--the one which obscures and changes all the others, the only one which is absolutely satisfying and complete.

Pain is pleasure, and want is comfort, and death is sweetness when once that golden mist is round it.
So it was that Stephens could have sung with joy as he faced his murderers.

He really had not time to think about them.

The important, all-engrossing, delightful thing was that she could not look upon him as a casual acquaintance any more.

Through all her life she would think of him--she would know.
Colonel Cochrane's camel was at one side, and the old soldier, whose wrists had been freed, had been looking down upon the scene, and wondering in his tenacious way whether all hope must really be abandoned.