"I hope not," said Minnie.
But the tree did die, and in a few weeks was fit for nothing but to be cut down and burned.
"What made it die, mother?" inquired Minnie, one day, as she was watching the men who were digging it up.
"It was not vigorous enough to endure the late storm. Your father took it from the middle of the woods because of its beauty. It had always been sheltered from the storm by other trees; and so it died when it was exposed without shelter."
"Would it have lived, if it had been grown on the edge of the woods, mother?"
"Probably it would. Had it always stood in the face of storms, it would have grown up hardier."
"Well, that's funny. I should never have thought of such a thing."
"Perhaps not," replied Mrs. Brown. "There are a vast many things you have yet to learn. In one respect you are like a young tree."
"Why, mother! How can I be like a young tree?" asked Minnie, with an air of surprise.
"Well, you need storms to blow on you while you are young, that you may be able to endure trouble when you are older."