"Don't say that. 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.'"
"True, my boy, you have taught me a lesson. I will forgive, but I don't think he will ever get over this bout; he is very violent."
"The most violent fires are soonest burnt out."
Tom had faith, she had none, she was a sad victim of despair—a despairing wife. But time will heal the deepest wounds. She went to work, grew cheerful, and contented there to spend the remainder of her life, which she said, would not be long. Of that she seemed to have a presentiment, and made all preparation which it becomes a reasonable mortal to make for such a prospective journey. She seemed to have but one wish.
"Oh! if I could see my husband as he was a few months ago, I should be willing to die then. But I cannot bear to die now with the thought upon my mind, that he would never shed a tear at my grave."
His time was coming. Tom was a philosopher. "Didn't I tell you," says he, "that the fire would soon burn out. He was here last night, walking up and down the pavement for hours, looking down into the kitchen when you were at work."
"Perhaps he wanted to strike me again."
"No, he was as sober as a judge."
"Oh, dear! then may be he was hungry, poor man."
"So I thought, and went and bought him a loaf of bread. When I gave it to him, he burst into tears, and walked away to a cart and sat down to eat it. He was hungry, and for fear he would be dry, and go to that cursed hole—"