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 Wrong? What, Philip? That fixt my heart, and tuned my whole life right? Cripple me? Break? My Philip? that brought the sun into sight? Vigorous always, and helpful, and full of resolute hope— Would I make you a reason to grumble and pine and mope?

Not I! You’ll never know it, or care to, Philip—but all the same, Because you’re plucky, because you’re you, I’ll be plucky and play the game. It’s tough; ay! and it will be tough, but, even at the start, it pays— Haven’t I got the thought of you for company all my days?

And everything in the width of this world that’s brave and honest and true, Don’t I love it dearer than ever, Philip, through loving you? And, maybe ’tisn’t the love one gets, so much as the love one gives, That settles whether one’s something or nothing, whether one loafs or lives?

....Finish’d!—Look at the sunset, flaming there on the peak! And the falling leaves are shining and pretty, and so is the singing creek— For I’m not to go lumping through the world, with my head all bow’d and bent, No! but properly taking notice—that is the way he went.