I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers,' said Priscilla. 'Then your soul is a golden narcissus,' said Anne, 'and Diana's is like a red, red rose. Jane's is an apple blossom, pink and wholesome and sweet.' 'And our own is a white violet, with purple streaks in its heart,' finished Priscilla.

Tears don't hurt like the ache does.

I can't cheer up — I don't want to cheer up. It's nicer to be miserable!

Our sacrifice is greater than his," cried Rilla passionately. "Our boys give only themselves. We give them.

Look, do you see that poem?' she said suddenly, pointing.

Life is worth living as long as there's a laugh in it.

You were never poor as long as you had something to love.