Of the Stranger's Tale, Which, Being Short, May Perhaps Meet with the Reader's Kind Approbation

"And so, weeping still, she turned away wearily, hopelessly, and I
stood to watch her bowed figure till she had crept away into the
evening and was gone."

"Thus, sirs, I drove her from me, this wounded lamb, this poor
broken-hearted maid--bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh--I drove her
from me, I who should have comforted and cherished her, I drove her
out into the night with hateful words and bitter curses. Oh, was
ever sin like mine? Oh, Self, Self! In ancient times, sirs, when a
man had committed some great sin he lashed himself with cruel stripes,
but I tell you no rod, no whip of many thongs ever stung or bit so
sharp and deep as remorse--it is an abiding pain. Therefore I walk
these highways preaching always forgiveness and forgetfulness of self,
and so needs must I walk until my days be done, or until--I find her
again." The stranger rose suddenly and so stood with bent head and
very still, only his hands griped and wrung each other. Yet when he
looked up his brow was serene and a smile was on his lips."

"But you, sirs, you are friends again, and that is good, for
friendship is a blessed thing. And you have youth and strength, and
all things are possible to you, therefore. But oh, beware of self,
take warning of a selfish man, forget self, so may you achieve great
things."