"You are larger than a sparrow, Jim," says Mr. Benedict with a smile.
"That's so."
"Larger than a hair."
Jim puts up his hand, brushes down the stiff crop that crowns his head, and responds with a comical smile, "I don' know 'bout that."
Jim pauses as if about to make some further remark, thinks better of it, and then, putting his big arm around his little wife, leads her off, up stairs.
The lights of the great house go out one after another, the cataracts sing the inmates to sleep, the summer moon witches with the mist, the great, sweet heaven bends over the dreaming town, and there we leave our friends at rest, to take up the burden of their lives again upon the happy morrow, beyond our feeble following, but still under the loving eye and guiding hand to which we confidently and gratefully commit them.