not last.

More and more am I impressed with the wonderful comeback of the human
soul. We are like those Chinese toys, which, no matter how they are
buffeted, will come back to an upright position. It takes a little
longer with us--that is all; but given half a chance--or less--people
will rise victorious over sin and sorrow, defeat and failure, and
prove thereby the divinity which is in all of us!

As the light dimmed outside, I had time to observe my two traveling
companions more closely. Though at first sight they came under the
same general description of "middle-aged women, possibly
grandmothers, industriously knitting," there was a wide difference
between them as I observed them further. One had a face which bore
traces of many disappointments, and had now settled down into a state
of sadness that was hopeless and final. She had been a fine-looking
woman once, too, and from her high forehead and well-shaped mouth I
should take her to be a woman of considerable mental power, but there
had been too much sorrow; she had belonged to a house of too much
trouble, and it had dried up the fountains of her heart. I could only
describe her by one word, "winter-killed"! She was like a tree which
had burst into bud at the coaxing of the soft spring zephyrs again and
again, only to be caught each time by the frost, and at last, when
spring really came, it could win no answering thrill, for the heart of
the tree was "winter-killed." The frost had come too often!

The other woman was older, more wrinkled, more weather-beaten, but
there was a childlike eagerness about her that greatly attracted me.
She used her hands when she spoke, and smiled often. This childish
enthusiasm contrasted strangely with her old face, and seemed like the