Boys do not grow into saints in a single night, in the way that Jack's beanstalk grew from earth to sky.

Sainthood comes slowly, like the blossom on a century plant; there must be a hundred years of thorny stem-life first.
Mammy soon lost all her fears of John Jay's dying.

Although the promise made to George on the haymow was faithfully kept, he could no more avoid getting into mischief than a weathercock can keep from turning when the wind blows.
The October frosts came, sweetening the persimmons and ripening the nuts in the hazel copse; but it nipped the children's bare feet, and made the thinly clad little shoulders shiver.

John Jay gladly shuffled into the old clothes sent over from Rosehaven.

They were many sizes too big, but he turned back the coat sleeves and hitched up his suspenders, regardless of appearances.