"Why is it always so, Waldo, always so ?" she said; "we long for things, and long for them, and pray for them; we would give all we have to come near to them, but we never reach them. Then at last, too late, just when we don't want them anymore, when all the sweetness is taken out of them, then they come. We don't want them then," she said, folding her hands resignedly on her little apron.
In the day of their bitterest need, all souls are alone.