“Grandpa, if we’d start out together, don’t you think we could find it?  Folks have all they want to eat there, and I’m hungry now.”

“Why, yes, yes, mebbe we could!  Some way I’m gittin’ homesick.  I don’t like it here in the city, and it seems like I used to know more about that land than I do now.  Since poor Tom got killed, I can’t remember no how.

“Sometimes in the night I git that happy, but if I make a little noise, Sary wakes me up, ’cause it bothers her, then that spoils it all.  I think I’m back in the country ag’in, and the church bell is a-ringin’ of a Sunday mornin’.  Tom’s mother and me start out from the little cottage, and I’m a-carryin’ Tom.  We walk down the cool grassy lane with the brook a-runnin’ on one side, and the trees is a-wavin’ in the soft breeze, and the birds is a-singin’, and Tom’s mother stops to pick some wild roses.  And the little white meetin’ house with the steeple a-p’intin’ straight up.  My Rosa, I wish you could see it, and with vines a-growin’ all over it!  I can ’most git it, then it slips away ag’in.  If I could jest be inside of that meetin’ house once more, it would all come straight, I know, fer there they used to talk and sing about that land and Jesus.”

“Yes, grandpa, you know it was Jesus that paid the fare.  Wasn’t He kind to do that? ’cause if He hadn’t poor folks couldn’t go.”

“Yes, mighty kind, mighty kind!

“Rosa,” after a pause, “come real close,” and the faded eyes sparkled with a new thought; “I want to whisper somethin’ so nobody’ll hear.  The very first day Sary’s away, let’s start out, and mebbe we can find some one to tell us how to go.  Will you, child?”

“Oh, yes, grandpa, good! then we’ll find mother.”

In her delight she clapped her hands for very joy.

“Sh! sh! child, Sary might hear, and that would spoil it all, though of course Sary’s a good woman, yes, a very good woman.  You won’t tell, will you?”

“No, no, grandpa, this’ll be our secret.  I’m just sure there must be lots of folks that can tell us, for the fare is paid for everybody, and they’re going all the time.  But I do wish we could find that pretty lady again I saw on the car.”

“Yes, dearie, I wish so too, but I think we’ll find it anyhow.  I’m a-gittin’ so very homesick, we jest must.”

“Sing about that land, won’t you, grandpa?”

“All right, you git the fiddle.  That’s the only song I can remember.  They used to sing it in the little white meetin’ house with the steeple a-p’intin’ straight up.  Wish I could remember more, but I can’t.”

In a quavery voice he sang many times over the grand old hymn: 

    “I will sing you a song of that beautiful land,
    The far away home of the soul,
    Where no storms ever beat on that glittering strand,
    While the years of eternity roll.

    Oh, that home of the soul in my visions and dreams,
    Its bright, jasper walls I can see,
    Till I fancy but thinly the vail intervenes
    Between that fair city and me!