Mark's dream from which he woke to wonder if the end of the world was at hand had been a shadow cast by coming events. So far as the world of Lima Street was concerned, it was the end of it. The night after that scene in his father's study, which made a deeper impression on him than anything before that date in his short life, his mother came to sleep in the nursery with him, to keep him company so that he should not be frightened any more, she offered as the explanation of her arrival. But Mark, although of course he never said so to her, was sure that she had come to him to be protected against his father. Mark did not overhear any more discussions between his parents, and he was taken by surprise when one day a week after his mother had come to sleep in his room, she asked him how he should like to go and live in the country. To Mark the country was as remote as Paradise, and at first he was inclined to regard the question as rhetorical to which a conventional reply was expected. If anybody had asked him how he should like to go to Heaven, he would have answered that he should like to go to Heaven very much. Cows, sheep, saints, angels, they were all equally unreal outside a picture book. "I would like to go to the country very much," he said. "And I would like to go to the Zoological Gardens very much. Perhaps we can go there soon, can we, mother?" "We can't go there if we're in the country." Mark stared at her. "But really go in the country?" "Yes, darling, really go." "Oh, mother," and immediately he checked his enthusiasm with a sceptical "when?" "Next Monday." "And shall I see cows?" "Yes." "And donkeys? And horses? And pigs? And goats?" To every question she nodded. "Oh, mother, I will be good," he promised of his own accord. "And can I take my grenadiers?" "You can take everything you have, darling." "Will Dora come?" He did not inquire about his father. "No." "Just you and me?" She nodded, and Mark flung his arms round her neck to press upon her lips a long fragrant kiss, such a kiss as only a child can give. On Sunday morning, the last Sunday morning he would worship in the little tin mission church, the last Sunday morning indeed that any of the children of Lima Street would worship there, Mark sat close beside his mother at the children's Mass. His father looking as he always looked, took off his chasuble, and in his alb walked up and down the aisle preaching his short sermon interspersed with questions. "What is this Sunday called?" There was a silence until a well-informed little girl breathed through her nose that it was called Passion Sunday. "Quite right. And next Sunday?" "Palm Sunday," all the children shouted with alacrity, for they looked forward to it almost more than to any Sunday in the year.