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.

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.

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.

Every life holds that which only a miracle can cure.

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