Home and fame became dungeons in which the soul sat and famished for love's little courtesies.
For no palace was ever so beautiful, no royal wine quaffed from vessels of gold was ever so sweet as to satisfy hearts famishing for one mite of that heavenly manna love prepares, or one cup filled with kindness.
Down in a corner of a window of an English palace may be found faint lines scratched with a woman's diamond.

What a tragedy in those words, "My prison!" It seems the sweet girl, Jane Grey, entered her palace with a leaping heart, but her lord had no time to break upon her white forehead the tiny box of life's ointment.

Hers was the palace; hers also a thousand rich gifts called titles, lands, castles, maids of honor, dresses, jewels.

Yet because the castles held no sweet courtesies the journal of that beautiful girl reminds us of some young bird that beats with bloody wings against the bars of an iron cage.
For life is made up not of joys few and intense, but of joys many and gentle.

Great happiness is the sum of many small drops.