In 1846 the prairie town of Oak River existed only in a settler's dream.

It is better to remember our love as it was in the springtime.

They are the most painful tears in the world ... the tears of the aged ... for they come from dried beds where the emotions have long burned low.

I think that love is more like a light that you carry. At first childish happiness keeps it lighted and after that romance. Then motherhood lights it and then duty . . . and maybe after that sorrow. You wouldn't think that sorrow could be a light, would you, dearie? But it can. And then after that, service lights it. Yes. . . . I think that is what love is to a woman . . . a lantern in her hand.

For though love has been ridiculed and disgraced, exchanged and bartered, dragged through the courts, and sold for thirty pieces of silver, the bright, steady glow of its fire still shines on the hearth-stones of countless homes.

thoughts are acrobats, agile and quite often untrustworthy.

Things last so much longer than people.