Do you think amethysts can be the souls of good violets?

Dear old world', she murmured, 'you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.

I am quite likely to re-act to the opposite extreme - to feel rapturously that the world is beautiful and mere existence something to thank God for. I suppose our 'blues' are the price we have to pay for our temperament. 'The gods don't allow us to be in their debt.' They give us sensitiveness to beauty in all its forms but the shadow of the gift goes with it.

Heretics are wicked, but they're mighty int'resting. It's jest that they've got sorter lost looking for God, being under the impression that He's hard to find - which He ain't never.

I'm not a bit changed - not really. I'm only just pruned down and branched out. The real me - back here - is just the same.

It was November--the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.

A plate of apples, an open fire, and a jolly good book are a fair substitute for heaven.