Jeffery Farnol

“ Don’t you think that you have been—just a little cruel—all these years, Aunt Priscilla?”
“Sometimes—one is cruel—only to be—kind!” she answered.
“Aren’t the peaches ripe enough, after all, Aunt Priscilla?”
“Over-ripe!” she said bitterly, “Oh—they are over-ripe!”
“Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?”
“No,” she answered, “no, there’s—this!” and she held up her little crutch stick.
“Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?”
“Oh!—isn’t—that enough?” Bellew rose. “Where are you going—What are you going to do?” she demanded. ”

“ Healthy they are, beyond a doubt, and, in their quaint, simple fashion, profoundly wise. If they are not extraordinarily wealthy, yet are they generally blessed with contented minds which, after all, is better than money, and far more to be desired than fine gold. ”

“ Let us sit here,—in the darkest corner,—there. Dear heart!—how bright the moon is to be sure.” So saying, Miss Priscilla ensconced herself at the very end of the rustic bench, where the deepest shadow lay.
“Well, Mr. Bellew,” she began, “as you know, to-day is my birthday. As to my age, I am—let us say,—just turned twenty-one and, being young, and foolish, Mr. Bellew, I have come out here to watch another very foolish person,—a ridiculous, old Sergeant of Hussars, who will come marching along, very soon, to mount guard in full regimentals, Mr. ”