CONCLUSION.

It was dreadfully unromantic, but Minnie did not fall into a decline.
She is alive and well at this moment. Life may be over, and yet we may
live functionally through long stagnant years. Life is not a calendar
of dates, but of feelings. Minnie will live a calm, chastened life. She
cannot love again; but she is not soured by her experience. She will be
one of those rare old maids who are so sweet and wholesome that even
youth, hot and impatient, tenders cordial homage to them.

Minnie braves her sorrow bravely. To look at her one would not suspect
that she had ever passed through deep suffering. Disappointment and
loss either curl the lips in bitter cynicism, or give them so soft, so
gracious, so touching an expression, as make their caress, falling upon
the wretched and forsaken, a benediction. When suffering steels the
heart, and poises the nature in an attitude of silent scorn for the
worst affront of fortune, it is fatal. It takes the life simply. That is
all. When it melts the heart, pity finds a soft place, and the ministry
of sorrow becomes, not a phrase, but an experience. Very few know
Minnie's secret. Her parents never mention the name of Donald Morrison.
She quietly goes about her modest duties, and the few poor old people in
the village left desolate in their old age, when the shadows lengthen,
and, the gloom of the long night is gathering, find that she has

"A tear for pity,
And a hand open as day for melting charity."

THE END.