She began to feel that she had her own circle of listeners, unknown friends, who were always ready to hear her when she spoke.

This consciousness is a most exquisite happiness to a true artist: it is a better stimulus than all the flattering criticism in the world can give.
She was often touched to tears by the tributes she received from these unknown friends.

They had a wide range, coming sometimes from her fellow-artists in literature, sometimes from lowly and uncultured people.
Once there came to her by mail, on a sheet of coarse paper, two faded roses, fragrant,--for they were cinnamon roses, whose fragrance never dies,--but yellow and crumpled, for they had journeyed many days to reach her.

They were tied together by a bit of blue yarn; and on the paper was written, in ill-spelt words, "I wanted to send you something; and these were all I had.

I am an old woman, and very poor.