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THE LADY PILGRIM. 
welcomed their friends, cried out, in the touching 
language of grief, “ We have looked on Death 
since we met you last! ” 
There was no luxurious table spread for them 
in the wilderness — no princely palace opening its 
portals for their reception. And yet again this 
noble-minded heroine murmured not. To the 
poor and distressed, in the colony, her visits were 
frequent; her sweet smile, yea, merry laugh, 
gushed out like the bird’s music in spring, while 
building its nest in the warm sunshine; and yet 
none doubted her piety, for she bore in her very 
looks the spirit of the Savior. But the flower of 
the Pilgrims could not long withstand the chill 
winds and hoarse blasts of a New England cli¬ 
mate. It withered away, and the year 1632 wit¬ 
nessed its dissolution. 
Again it was early morning; but the sun looked 
down upon no stately castle in the wild woods of 
the new world. In a brown frame house, rendered 
almost dreary from its secluded situation, there 
was transpiring one of the most interesting of 
earthly scenes: a Christian was going home to 
God—home to that bright and beautiful world, 
“where the redeemed walk.” 
Her cheek was as hueless as the pillow on 
which it rested ; her breath came short and thick; 
but her eyes had an unearthly lustre, and in the 
weak tones of her voice there was a melody sweet 
as the swan’s dying note. Through the raised 
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