The three younger children, who had no taste for conversation such as this, having finished their meal slunk into the back room, to gamble away farthings as they had learned to do from their father. Ann sat down by the fire opposite to Mark, a more gentle expression than usual upon her face, and pushing back the hair from her brow, listened, leaning on her hand. “I will tell you, mother, what the clergyman told me—I wish that I could remember every word. He said that God would guide us by his counsel here, and afterward receive us to glory. And he spoke of that glory, that dazzling, endless glory! Oh, mother, how wretched and dark seems this earth when we think of the blessedness to come!” “But that blessedness may not be for us,” said Ann. “He said that it was for those who had faith, who believed in the Lord Jesus Christ.” “I believe,” said the woman, “I never doubted the Bible; I used to read it when I was a child.” “We will read mine together now, mother.” “And what more did the clergyman tell you?” “He told me that the faith which brings us to heaven will be sure to produce—” Mark paused to recall the exact words—“repentance, love, and a holy life.” “A holy life!” repeated Ann, slowly. Painful thoughts crossed her mind of many things constantly done that ought not to be done, habits hard to be parted with as a right hand or a right eye; holiness seemed something as far beyond her reach as the moon which was now rising in the cloudy sky; she folded her hands with a gloomy smile, and said, “If _that_ be needful, we may as well leave all these fine hopes to those who have some chance of winning what they wish!” “The way is not shut to us.” “I tell you that it is,” said the woman, impatiently; for the little gleam of hope that had dawned on her soul had given place to sullen despair. “To be holy you must be truthful and honest—we are placed in a situation where we cannot be truthful, we cannot be honest, we cannot serve God! It is all very well for the rich and the happy; the narrow way to them may be all strewed with flowers, but to us it is closed—and for ever!” She clenched her hand with a gesture of despair. “But, mother—” “Talk no more,” she said, rising from her seat; “do you think that your father would stand having a saint for his wife, or his son! We have gone so far that we cannot turn back, we cannot begin life again like children—never speak to me again on these matters!” and, so saying, Ann quitted the room, further than ever from the strait gate that leadeth unto life, more determined to pursue her own unhappy career.