before me now. If I were a painter, I could show it to thee.’
But clearly above all other things, did he remember every look and tone of his beloved Sarah; even in the days when they trudged to school together, hand in hand.
The recollection of this first love, closely intertwined with his first religious impressions, was the only flowery spot of romance in the old gentleman's very practical character.
When he was seventy years of age, he showed me a piece of writing she had copied for him, when she was a girl of fourteen.
It was preserved in the self-same envelope, in which she sent it, and pinned with the same pin, long since blackened by age. I said, ‘Be careful not to lose that pin.’
‘No money could tempt me to part with it. I loved the very ground she trod upon.’
He was never weary of eulogizing her comely looks, beautiful manners, sound principles, and sensible conversation.
The worthy companion of his later life never seemed troubled by such remarks.
She not only ‘listened to a sister's praises with unwounded ear,’ but often added a heartfelt tribute to the virtues of her departed friend.
It is very common for old people to grow careless about their personal appearance, and their style of