When we are young we think our troubles a mighty business - that the world is spread out expressly as a stage for the particular drama of our lives and that we have a right to rant and foam at the mouth if we are crossed. I have done enough of that in my time.

The perpetual mourner -- the grief that can never be healed -- is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day seems a new beginning -- a new acquaintance with grief.

Childhood is only the beautiful and happy time in contemplation and retrospect: to the child it is full of deep sorrows, the meaning of which is unknown.

I like not only to be loved, but also to be told I am loved.

We have no right to come forward and urge wider changes for good, until we have tried to alter the evils which lie under our own hands.

It is difficult for woman to try to be anything good when she is not believed in.

Some people are born to make life pretty, and others to grumble that it is not pretty enough.