“It’s like climbing Zion’s hill,” said John to himself. “Oh, when she sees me! I shan’t care how many hills there were!” His bundle was made up in a great red handkerchief, from which his sword protruded, within which was his best uniform. Farm-houses were his sleeping places—but that only. No more than one night for each, though he might have stayed anywhere as long as he wished. [Illustration: “_‘It’s like climbing Zion’s hill,’ said John to himself_”] “I’m going to bring her—her, you know, home. Bride and groom. She said it. I heard her voice in the night.” And this was always sufficient reason for refusing the dear, insidious hospitality pressed everywhere upon him. If night came and there was no farm-house near, he would nestle in the straw of a wayside stack, under the stars, damp with the dew, to rise with the sun in his face. He liked that, and could go on without breakfast. It was all very beautiful. His great climax grew upon him mile by mile, until it was the only thing he had in his poor old head. “She will be sitting this way—with her hands in her lap, like she always sits now,” he would say to himself, “thinking of me. I expect she’s thinking of me all the time. I’ll shave and put on my uniform and my sword, and suddenly appear before her. Attention!—you know. Only I’ll not _say_ that—so’s not to frighten her. Mebby she’ll be reading her Bible. Then she’ll not see me till I’m right on top of her. Then I’ll say, soft, so’s not to frighten her—about this a—way—‘B—E—T—S—Y!’” He whispered it lovingly. “And she’ll just say ‘_John!_’” This was a sharp cry of joy. He never got further than this. It did not seem necessary. What could be better? What could be beyond that? His journey came to an end suddenly—as it seemed to John. It made him gulp on something in his throat. One morning the spires of the city lay close before him as if they had been conjured out of a dream. There it was against the pink clouds, within the morning mists, glowing, like the City of God as he had fancied it. He stood and gazed upon it, awed and bewildered. He had not thought of it as beautiful. To him it was only the city of the poor-house. Perhaps Betsy would not wish to leave a place so beautiful. He bravely cast out the unworthy thought. She would leave any place for him. Heaven itself. With his faith renewed he went up into the city of the spires. XI BUT THE POOR-HOUSE MAY BE ONE OF THE MANSIONS IN OUR FATHER’S HOUSE And there he found the first unkindness of his long journey. No one offered him a place to sleep or a bite to eat. And there he could not see the sun when it rose in the morning. And what had become of the glories of the city he had seen against the clouds? This one was not glorious.