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Rh solitary heath. He was in that mood of all others when the mind fastens most readily on some chance object for its train of thoughts, when strong internal excitement gladly vents itself on any outward impulse. He had unconsciously paused on a slight ascent, on whose side stood the remains of a small but ancient well: its square walls were in ruins, and a few large but broken stones, some jagged and bare, others with little tufts of grass or a single yellow wild flower springing from them,—all spoke neglect and decay. The clear spring itself dripped over one fragment with a low murmur, whose monotony had all the sweetness of custom. The ear heard it, till it listened for the sound like a familiar thing. The well was filled with weeds, and the water wandered away, wasting its little current over too large a space, but still marked by a growth of brighter and fresher green. "And thus it is," thought Edward, "with all the works of men: whether for beauty or usefulness, how soon they perish! One generation builds, that another may neglect or destroy. We talk of the future—we look to it—we act for it. The future comes—ourselves are forgotten—our works are ruins."