“I don’t know,” said Madge; “I don’t want to think,” subjoined her elder brother; their mother only heaved a deep sigh. “Is it not something,” continued Mark, “to hear of the way to a place where our souls may be happy when our bodies are dust? Is it not something to look forward to a glorious heaven, where millions and millions of years may be spent amongst joys far greater than we can think, and yet never bring us nearer to the end of our happiness and glory?” “Oh, these are all dreams,” laughed Jack, “that come from reading in that book.” “They are not dreams!” exclaimed Mark, with earnestness, “they are more real than anything on earth. Everything is changing here, nothing is sure; flowers bloom one day and are withered the next; now there is sunshine, and now there is gloom; you see a man strong and healthy, and the next thing you hear of him perhaps is his death! All things are changing and passing away, just like a dream when we awake; but heaven and its delights are sure, quite sure; the rocks may be moved—but it never can be changed; the sun may be darkened—it is all bright for ever!” “Oh that we might reach it!” exclaimed Ann Dowley, the tears rising into her eyes. Her sons looked at her in wonder, for they had never known their mother utter such a sentence before. To them Mark’s enthusiasm seemed folly and madness, and they could not hide their surprise at the effect which it produced upon one so much older than themselves. Ann Dowley had been brought up to better things, and had received an education very superior to the station in which she had been placed by her marriage. For many years she had been a servant in respectable families, and though all was now changed—how miserably changed!—she could not forget much that she had once seen and heard. She was not ignorant, though low and coarse-minded, and it was perhaps from this circumstance that her family were decidedly more intelligent than country children of their age usually are. Ann could read well, but her only stock of books consisted of some dirty novels, broken-backed and torn—she would have done well to have used them to light the fire. She was one who had never cared much for religion, who had not sought the Creator in the days of her youth; but she was unhappy now, united to a husband whom she dreaded, and could not respect—whose absence for a season was an actual relief; she was poor, and she doubly felt the sting of poverty from having once been accustomed to comfort—and Mark’s description of peace, happiness, and joy, touched a chord in her heart that had been silent for long. [Illustration: MARK AND HIS MOTHER.] “You too desire to reach heaven!” cried Mark, with animation sparkling in his eyes; “oh, mother, we will be pilgrims together, struggle on together in the narrow way, and be happy for ever and ever!”