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She would not admit even to her self that news from the desert could move her so. She began to read slowly, but presently, with a little cry, she hastened through the pages. I'm still not certain how I ought to style you, but I thought I'd compromise as per above. Anyway, it's a sure thing that I haven't bothered you much with country-cousin letters.
He laid his hand gently on her arm. "You must not look so grave," he said, "you must gape more. You are a country-cousin, madam." And she smiled in spite of herself, as she met his eyes. "Tell me everything," she said. They went together nearer to the church, and faced about. "We can see better from here," he said. Then he began. First there was the Lieutenant's lodging on the right.
He was a sort of messenger between Heaven and earth, and was the explorer of our celestial heritage, as Saint Catherine of Genoa at a later date was the explorer of purgatory. "A less interesting personage was Saint Piat, a priest of Tournai, beheaded by a Roman proconsul. In this assembly of famous saints he was rather the poor country-cousin, a mere provincial Saint.
She would not admit even to her self that news from the desert could move her so. She began to read slowly, but presently, with a little cry, she hastened through the pages. I'm still not certain how I ought to style you, but I thought I'd compromise as per above. Anyway, it's a sure thing that I haven't bothered you much with country-cousin letters.
The coldest welcome that a threadbare curate ever got at the door of a bishop's palace, the most icy reception that a country-cousin ever received at the city-mansion of a mushroom millionnaire, is agreeably tepid, compared to that which the Rhadamanthus who dooms you to the more or less elevated circle of his inverted Inferno vouchsafes, as you step up to enter your name on his dog's-eared register.
"What change has made the pastures sweet, And reached the daisies at my feet, And cloud that wears a golden hem?" than in all the verse of Bloomfield, if all of Bloomfield were compressed into a single song. And yet, if we had lived in those days, we should all have subscribed for the book of the peasant-bard, perhaps have read it, but, most infallibly, have given it away to some country-cousin.