Weary and heart-broken, she had hurried back to the home she had left, and
the haunts she had cherished.

She embraced the young pine, tenderly, and exclaimed--

"Oh, that thy lot was mine! Thou wilt stand here, in a green youth, a
century after I am laid low. No fears perplex thee, no sorrows eat away thy
strength. Willingly would I become like thee."

At last she grew calm; and the old question which she had never found
answered to her satisfaction--"What is life?"--sprang up into her mind. All
the deeds of past days moved before her, and she felt that hers had not
been a life worthy of an immortal soul. She heard again the voices of the
trees, the wind, and the stream, and a measure of peace seemed granted to
her. "Endurance--Hope--Faith," she murmured. She rose to go.

"Farewell, beloved pine," she said. "God knows whether I shall see thee
again; but such is my desire. With his help, I will begin a new existence.
Farewell, monitors who have comforted me. I go to learn 'what is life.'"

In a distant city, there dwelt, to extreme old age, a pious woman, a Lydia
in her holiness, a Dorcas in her benevolence. Years seemed to have no power
over her cheerful spirit, though her bodily strength grew less. Great
riches had fallen to her lot; but in her dwelling luxury found no home. A
hospital--a charity school--an orphan asylum--all attested her true
appreciation of the value of riches. In her house, many a young girl found
a home, whose head had else rested on a pillow of infamy. The reclaimed
drunkard dispensed her daily bounty to the needy. The penitent thief was
her treasurer. Prisons knew the sound of her footstep. Alms-houses blessed
her coming. She had been a faithful steward of the Lord's gifts.