Every day is conquerable by its hours, and every hour by its minutes.

What a snapshot is to your life, your life is to eternity, so wouldn't it be nice if eternity captured you smiling?

We are each of us born into the arms of mortality, the Lord recognizing our need to be held.

Life is short, God's way of encouraging a bit of focus.

There's something very solemn about the idea of a new year, isn't there? Just think of three hundred and sixty-five whole days with not a thing happened in them yet.

Beyond those ten minutes there did not seem, just then, to be anything worth being called Time.

There was a blue, waiting sea at the end and an old grey house fronting the sunset, so close to the purring waves that in storms their spray dashed over its very doorstep...a wise old house that knew many things, as Pat always felt. Mother's old home and therefore to be loved, whether one could love the people in it or not.

Oh, what would the world be without youth? And yet it passes so quickly. We are old before we know it. We never believe it ... and then some day we wake up and discover we are old.

life, but leave a rich heritage of beautiful memories in their going — one of those summers which, in a fortunate combination of delightful weather, delightful friends and delightful doings, come as near to perfection as anything can come in this world.

She was a little lady with snow-white hair beautifully wavy and thick, and carefully arranged in becoming puffs and coils. Beneath it was an almost girlish face, pink-cheeked and sweet-lipped, with big soft brown eyes and dimples . . . actually dimples. She wore a very dainty gown of cream muslin with pale-hued roses on it . . . a gown which would have seemed ridiculously juvenile on most women of her age, but which suited Miss Lavendar so perfectly that you never thought about it all.

I am this month one whole year older than I was this time twelve-month; and having got, as you perceive, almost into the middle of my fourth volume—and no farther than to my first day's life—'tis demonstrative that I have three hundred and sixty-four days more life to write just now, than when I first set out; so that instead of advancing, as a common writer, in my work with what I have been doing at it—on the contrary, I am just thrown so many volumes back—

With an ear open to your musical dialectic, one can be young and become old, can work and rest, be content and sad: in short, one can live.