But this tenderness, which has its roots in every human heart, had
larger roots in the heart of Hester than in most. Whatever her failings,
whatever ugly weeds grew in the neglected corners of her nature, the
moment she came in contact with any of her kind in whatever condition of
sadness or need, the pent-up love of God--I mean the love that came of
God and was divine in her--would burst its barriers and rush forth,
sometimes almost overwhelming herself in its torrent. She would then be
ready to die, nothing less, to help the poor and miserable. She was not
yet far enough advanced to pity vulgarity in itself--perhaps none but
Christ is able to do that--but she could and did pity greatly its
associated want and misery, nor was repelled from them by their
accompanying degradation.
The tide of action, in these later years flowing more swiftly in the
hearts of women--whence has resulted so much that is noble, so much that
is paltry, according to the nature of the heart in which it swells--had
been rising in that of Hester also. She must not waste her life! She
must _do_ something! What should it be? Her deep sense of the
misery around her had of course suggested that it must be something in
the way of help.
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