It is a strange thing to read a letter after the writer is dead - a bitter-sweet thing, in which pain and comfort are strangely mingled.

Anne Shirley. Anne with an "e.

It was October again ... a glorious October, all red and gold, with mellow mornings when the valleys were filled with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had poured them in for the sun to drain - amethyst, pearl, silver, rose, and smoke-blue. The dews were so heavy that the fields glistened like cloth of silver and there were such heaps of rustling leaves in the hollows of many-stemmed woods to run crisply through.

There is a book of Revelation in every one's life, as there is in the Bible.

It's so hard to get up again—although of course the harder it is the more satisfaction you have when you do get up, haven't you?

But the worst of imagining things is that the time comes when you have to stop and that hurts.

You are the only person who loves me in the world," said Elizabeth. "When you talk to me I smell violets.