The past is our only real possession in life. It is the one piece of property of which time cannot deprive us it is our own in a way that nothing else in life is. In a word, we are our past we do not cling to it, it clings to us.

Every heart has a miracle to pray for. Every life holds that which only a miracle can cure. To prove that there have never been, that there can never be, miracles does not alter the matter. So long as there is something hoped for, - that does not come in the legitimate channel of possible events, - just so long will the miracle be prayed for.

We wander through old streets, and pause before the age stricken houses and, strange to say, the magic past lights them up.

Every life holds that which only a miracle can cure.

Patience! Patience! Patience is the invention of dullards and sluggards. In a well-regulated world there should be no need of such a thing as patience.