That lone female, whose hand was gathering the scattered heads of barley, had known better days. She had been nursed in the lap of ease. She dwelt in Moab. A stranger came there. He had been reared near Siloa's sacred stream. He had been instructed in the divine law and his intellect had been beautified and expanded, and his heart softened and refined by its heavenly teaching. He was young and beautiful, and full of manly dignity. This interesting Moabitess saw the stranger. His dark lustrous eye met hers with an interest that mutually increased till love burned bright in both their bosoms. They were joined in wedded love, and her Mahlon was all her own! No, not all--for death, the insatiable archer, had fixed his eye upon him. Only a short period elapsed, and Mahlon was numbered with the dead! She saw his bright eye forever shut, and the dark grave closing over his pale, unbreathing corse. Mahlon had a father, but he too had found a grave in that Moabitish land where they now sojourned. Mahlon had a brother, but that brother had fallen beneath the shaft of death, and his dust slumbered fast by the side of his dead father. Mahlon had a mother. Poor lone widow! Her name was once Naomi--PLEASANT, but now she chose to be called Mara--BITTER--for _the Almighty had dealt very bitterly with her_. She had buried all she most loved in a stranger land. Why should she not now return to her native land--to the altars of her fathers--and the home of her childhood? Shall she go alone? No--not while Mahlon's widow lives. The hour of parting came. Her two daughters-in-law--for both of her sons had taken them wives in the land of Moab--had already accompanied her several miles on her way to the land of her nativity. But the moment of separation had now come! They stood under a cluster of palms--a cool, refreshing spring sent forth its waters which flowed and gurgled along beside them. All nature smiled around them, but their hearts were sad. This widowed, childless mother--after a long painful struggle of silent feeling, said unto her two daughters-in-law, _go return each to your mother's house_. _The Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead and with me._ Then she kissed them each. And they lifted up their voice and wept. How could they part? They said, _surely we will return with thee unto thy people_.--And she said--nay--I have nothing to offer you: I go back to my country stript of friends, and substance. Therefore turn again my daughters, why will ye go with me? The deep fountains of feeling were again broken up, and they again lifted up their voices and wept. Then Orpah clasping the mother of her buried Chilion in her arms, fell on her neck, and, sobbing long and loud, kissed her and bid her a final adieu.