"I _am_ willing, dear Mrs. Linwood, my kindest friend, my second mother. I will in all things be guided by your counsel and moulded by your will. No, oh no, I would not for worlds rob my mother of the glorious inheritance purchased by a Saviour's blood. But tell me one thing,--must we all pass through tribulation before entering the kingdom of heaven? Must we all travel with bleeding feet the thorny path of suffering, before being admitted into the presence of God?" "The Bible must answer you, my child. Do you remember, in the apocalyptic vision, when it was asked, 'What are these, which are arrayed in white robes? and whence come they?' It was answered, 'These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'" "Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them." I remembered them well. "Go on," I said, "that is not all." "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat." She paused, and her voice became tremulous from deep emotion. "One verse more," I cried, "only one." "For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe all tears from their eyes." There was silence for a few moments. All words seemed vain and sacrilegious after this sublimest language of revelation. At length I said,-- "Let me wear white, the livery of my mother, in heaven. 'T is a sin to mourn for her whose tears the hand of God has wiped away." CHAPTER XVIII. One week, and another week passed by, and every evening was as charming as the first of the return of Ernest Linwood. In that fortnight were compressed the social and intellectual joys of a lifetime. Music, reading, and conversation filled the measure of the evening hours. Such music, such reading, and such conversation as I never heard before. I had been accustomed to read aloud a great deal to my own dear mother, to Mrs. Linwood, and to my young pupils also, and I had reason to think I could read remarkably well; but I could not read like Ernest,--I never heard any one that could. He infused his own soul into the soul of the author, and brought out his deepest meanings. When he read poetry I sat like one entranced, bound by the double spell of genius and music. Mrs. Linwood could sew; Edith could sew or net, but I could do nothing but listen. I could feel the blood tingling to my finger ends, the veins throbbing in my temples, and the color coming and going in my cheek. "You love poetry," said he once, pausing, and arresting my fascinated glance. "Love it," I exclaimed, sighing in the fulness of delight, "it is the passion of my soul."