“I don’t know.  I don’t care.  In any event, it would be right.  She did nothing wrong.  If she unwittingly sent him to his death, she sent him to die for God’s sake, for man’s sake.”

“Yes—­yes.  But still—­”

“Well, we must trust that look of hers.”

PG EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: 

    Affected absence of mind
    Be good, sweet man, and let who will be clever
    Comfort of the critical attitude
    Conscience weakens to the need that isn’t
    Death is an exile that no remorse and no love can reach
    Death is peace and pardon
    Did not idealize him, but in the highest effect she realized him
    Does any one deserve happiness
    Does anything from without change us? 
    Europe, where society has them, as it were, in a translation
    Favorite stock of his go up and go down under the betting
    Hemmed round with this eternal darkness of death
    Indispensable
    Love of justice hurry them into sympathy with violence
    Married for no other purpose than to avoid being an old maid
    Nervous woes of comfortable people
    Novelists, who really have the charge of people’s thinking
    People that have convictions are difficult
    Rejoice as much at a non-marriage as a marriage
    Respect for your mind, but she don’t think you’ve got any sense
    Superstition of the romances that love is once for all
    Superstition that having and shining is the chief good
    To do whatever one likes is finally to do nothing that one likes
    Took the world as she found it, and made the best of it
    What we can be if we must
    When you look it—­live it
    Would sacrifice his best friend to a phrase

THEIR SILVER WEDDING JOURNEY.

By William Dean Howells

Part I.

[Note:  Several chapter heading numerals are out of order or missing in this 1899 edition, however the text is all present in the three volumes.  D.W.]

I.

“You need the rest,” said the Business End; “and your wife wants you to go, as well as your doctor.  Besides, it’s your Sabbatical year, and you, could send back a lot of stuff for the magazine.”

“Is that your notion of a Sabbatical year?” asked the editor.

“No; I throw that out as a bait to your conscience.  You needn’t write a line while you’re gone.  I wish you wouldn’t for your own sake; although every number that hasn’t got you in it is a back number for me.”

“That’s very nice of you, Fulkerson,” said the editor.  “I suppose you realize that it’s nine years since we took ‘Every Other Week’ from Dryfoos?”

“Well, that makes it all the more Sabbatical,” said Fulkerson.  “The two extra years that you’ve put in here, over and above the old style Sabbatical seven, are just so much more to your credit.  It was your right to go, two years ago, and now it’s your duty.  Couldn’t you look at it in that light?”