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Day, quench thy torch! come, ghostlike, from on high, With thy loved silence, come, thou haunting Eve, Broaden below thy web of purple dye, Which lulled boughs mysterious round us weave. For love's delight, enduring listeners none, The froward witness of the light will flee; Hesper alone, the rosy silent one, Down-glancing may our sweet familiar be!
She was smiling her down-glancing, little sprite smile. Miriam loved her.... A great plaque of sunlight lay across the breakfast-table. Miriam was too happy to trouble about her imminent trial. She reflected that it was quite possible to-day and to-morrow would be free.
Worry makes the wrinkles; worry cuts the deep, down-glancing lines on the face; worry is the worst disease of our modern times. Care is contagious; it is hard work being cheerful at a funeral, and it is a good deal harder to keep the frown from your face when you are in the throng of the worry worn ones.