Sorrow.—It would be a poor result of all our anguish and wrestling, if we were nothing but our old selves at the end of it—if we could return to the same blind loves, the same self-confident blame, the same light thoughts of human suffering, the same frivolous gossip over blighted human lives, the same feeble sense of that unknown, toward which we have sent forth irrepressible cries in our loneliness.—Adam Bede.