The old man went from his room refreshed by sleep, and partook of the
bread and honey which the kind woman had ready for him. Then, thanking
them for their hospitality, he departed.

The laborer and wife watched him out of sight, and thought they had
never seen anything more beautiful than his white hair waving in the
morning breeze.

At dusk a light shone in the vacant cottage, and they sent him fresh
cakes, milk, and honey for his evening meal.

* * * * *

Ten years passed away. The old man had cultured his land, and no fairer
flowers or sweeter fruits grew in the valley than his own. He had taught
the people many truths which he had learned in his solitary life on the
mountain, and in return had learned much from them. He faded slowly away.
The brilliant flowers within his garden grew suddenly distasteful to him.
He longed to look once more on a pure white blossom which grew only at
the mountain top. With its whiteness no flower could compare. There were
others, growing half way up, that approached its purity, but none equaled
the flower on the summit.

"I should like, of all things," answered the old man, when they desired
to know what would most please him,--for he had become a great favorite
in the valley,--"to look once more upon my pure white flower ere I die;
but it's so far to the mountain top, none will care to climb."

"Thou _shalt_ see it!" exclaimed a strong youth, who was courageous,