There was not reason in his face, to be sure, but there certainly was an expression there, trembling, and mild, and beautiful, as is the light of the morning star, before the glory of the sun has unveiled itself in heaven.

To Raymond's mind that early herald had indeed come, but that was all--to him had never arisen the light of perfect day.
"'There she is,' said he, 'look at her, but don't spake.' "I looked at her with deep and melancholy interest.

She sat on a broken tombstone that lay beside the grave of those in whom her whole happiness in this life had centered.

Her dress was wofully neglected, her hair loose, that is, it escaped from her cap, her white bosom was bare, and her feet without shoe or stocking.

I could easily perceive, that great as her privations had been, God had now, perhaps in mercy, taken away her consciousness of them, for she often smiled whilst talking to herself, and occasionally seemed to feel that fulness of happiness which, whether real or not, appears so frequently in the insane.
At length she stooped down, and kissed the clay of their graves, exclaiming-- "'There is something here that I love; but nobody will tell me what it is--no, not one.