“He’ll die without setting eyes on his flower,” said the good woman who had given him shelter the night he came to the valley.  She had not the courage to try the ascent, but she endeavored to stimulate others to go to the top and bring the blossom to cheer his heart.  She offered, as reward, choice fruits and linen from her stores; but all had some excuse, although they loved the old man tenderly:  none felt equal to the effort.

Towards noon, a pale, fragile girl, from a distant part of the vale, appeared, who had heard of his desire, and stood at the door of his cottage and knocked.

“What dost thou wish?” he asked from within.

“To go to the mountain for the flower and place it in thy hand,” she answered, as she entered his room and meekly stood before him.

“Thou art very frail of body,” he replied, “but strong of heart.  Go, try, and my soul will follow and strengthen thee, fair daughter.”

She kissed his hand, and departed.

The morning came, and she returned not.  The end of the second day drew nigh, and yet she came not back.

“Pooh, pooh!” exclaimed one of a group of wood-cutters near by the cottage.  “Such a fool-hardy errand will only be met by death.  The old man ought to be content to die without sight of his flower when it costs so much labor to get it.”

“So think me,” said his comrade, between the puffs of his pipe; “so think me.  Our flowers are pretty, and good ’nough, too.  Sure, he orter be content with what grows ’round him, and not be sending folk a-climbing.”  This said, he resumed his smoking vigorously, and looked very wise.

* * * * *

The aged man of the mountain was passing rapidly away.  The kind neighbors laid him for the last time on his cot, and sat tearfully around the room.  Some stood in groups outside, looking wistfully towards the mountain; for their kind hearts could not bear to see him depart without the flower to gladden his eyes.

“The girl’s gone a long time,” remarked one of the women.

“The longer she’s gone, the surer the sign she’s reached the mountain top.  It’s a long way up there, and a weary journey back.  My feet have trod it often, and I know all the sharp rocks and the tangled branches in the way.  But she will come yet.  I hear footsteps not far away.”

“But too late, we fear, for your eyes to behold the blossom, should she bring it.”

“Then put it on my grave—­but hark! she comes—­some one approaches!”

Through the crowd, holding high the spotless flower, came the fair girl, with torn sandals and weary feet, but with beaming eyes.  The old man raised himself in bed, while she knelt to receive his blessing.

“Fair girl,”—­he spoke in those clear tones which the dying ever use,—­“the whiteness of this blossom is only rivaled by the angels’ garments.  Its spotless purity enters ever into the soul of him who plucks it, making it white as their robes.  To all who persevere to the mountain top and pluck this flower, into all does its purity, its essence, enter and remain forever.  For is it not the reward of the toiler, who pauses not till the summit is gained?”