“We don’t lie in the grave, Madame Vine.”

“No, no, child.  Our bodies lie there, to be raised again in beauty at the last day.  We go into a blessed place of rest, where sorrow and pain cannot come.  I wish—­I wish,” she uttered, with a bursting heart, “that you and I were both there!”

“Who says the world’s so sorrowful, Madame Vine?  I think it is lovely, especially when the sun’s shining on a hot day, and the butterflies come out.  You should see East Lynne on a summer’s morning, when you are running up and down the slopes, and the trees are waving overhead, and the sky’s blue, and the roses and flowers are all out.  You would not call it a sad world.”

“A pleasant world one might regret to leave if we were not wearied by pain and care.  But, what is this world, take it at its best, in comparison with that other world, Heaven?  I have heard of some people who are afraid of death; they fear they shall not go to it; but when God takes a little child there it is because He loves him.  It is a land, as Mrs. Barbauld says, where the roses are without thorns, where the flowers are not mixed with brambles—­”

“I have seen the flowers,” interrupted William, rising in his earnestness.  “They are ten times brighter than our flowers here.”

“Seen the flowers!  The flowers we shall see in Heaven?” she echoed.

“I have seen a picture of them.  We went to Lynneborough to see Martin’s picture of the Last Judgment—­I don’t mean Dr. Martin,” said William interrupting himself.

“I know.”

“There were three pictures.  One was called the ‘Plains of Heaven,’ and I liked that best; and so we all did.  Oh, you should have seen it!  Did you ever see them, Madame Vine?”

“No.  I have heard of them.”

“There was a river, you know, and boats, beautiful gondolas they looked, taking the redeemed to the shores of Heaven.  They were shadowy figures in white robes, myriads of them, for they reached all up in the air to the holy city; it seemed to be in the clouds coming down from God.  The flowers grew on the banks of the river, pink, and blue, and violet, all colors they were, but so bright and beautiful; brighter than our flowers are.”

“Who took you to see the pictures?”

“Papa.  He took me and Lucy; and Mrs. Hare went with us, and Barbara—­she was not our mamma then.  But, madame”—­dropping his voice—­“what stupid thing do you think Lucy asked papa?”

“What did she ask him?”

“She asked whether mamma was amongst that crowd in the white robes; whether she was gone up to Heaven?  Our mamma that was, you know, and lots of people could hear what she said.”

Lady Isabel dropped her face upon her hands.

“What did your papa answer?” she breathed.

“I don’t know.  Nothing, I think; he was talking to Barbara.  But it was very stupid of Lucy, because Wilson has told her over and over again that she must never talk of Lady Isabel to papa.  Miss Manning told her so too.  When we got home, and Wilson heard of it, she said Lucy deserved a good shaking.”