THE MARRIED SISTERS.
"COME, William, a single day, out of three hundred and sixty-five,
is not much,"
"True, Henry Thorne. Nor is the single drop of water, that first
finds its way through the dyke, much; and yet, the first drop but
makes room for a small stream to follow, and then comes a flood. No,
no, Henry, I cannot go with you, to-day; and if you will be governed
by a friend's advice, you will not neglect your work for the fancied
pleasures of a sporting party."
"All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy, We were not made to be
delving forever with tools in close rooms. The fresh air is good for
us. Come, William, you will feel better for a little recreation. You
look pale from confinement. Come; I cannot go without you."
"Henry Thorne," said his friend, William Moreland, with an air more
serious than that at first assumed, "let me in turn urge you to
stay."
"It is in vain, William," his friend said, interrupting him.
"I trust not, Henry. Surely, my early friend and companion is not
deaf to reason."
"No, not to right reason."
"Well, listen to me. As I said at first, it is not the loss of a
simple day, though even this is a serious waste of time, that I now
take into consideration.
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