‘No--and I shouldn’t mind if you were only merry, but you know you are scoffing at the story, and I love it--so I can’t be pleased to hear you.’ ‘I beg your pardon, Mary--but your celestial city lies behind such a fog that not one crystal turret, one pearly gate of it was ever seen. At least _we_ have never caught a glimmer of it, and must go tramp, tramp--we don’t know whither, any more than the blind puppy that has crawled too far from his mother’s side.’ ‘I do see the light of it, Charley dear,’ said Mary, sadly--not as if the light were any great comfort to her at the moment. ‘If you do see something--how can you tell what it’s the light of? It may come from the city of Dis, for anything you know.’ ‘I don’t know what that is.’ ‘Oh! the red-hot city--down below. You will find all about it in Dante.’ ‘It doesn’t look like that--the light I see,’ said Mary, quietly. ‘How very ill-bred you are--to say such wicked things, Charley!’ said Clara. ‘Am I? They _are_ better unmentioned. Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die! Only don’t allude to the unpleasant subject.’ He burst out singing: the verses were poor, but I will give them. ‘Let the sun shimmer! Let the wind blow! All is a notion--What do we know? Let the moon glimmer! Let the stream flow! All is but motion To and fro! ‘Let the rose wither! Let the stars glow! Let the rain batter-- Drift sleet and snow! Bring the tears hither! Let the smiles go! What does it matter? To and fro! ‘To and fro ever, Motion and show! Nothing goes onward-- Hurry or no! All is one river-- Seaward and so Up again sunward-- To and fro! ‘Pendulum sweeping High, and now low! That star--_tic_, blot it! _Tac_, let it go! Time he is reaping Hay for his mow; That flower--he’s got it! To and fro! ‘Such a scythe swinging, Mighty and slow! Ripping and slaying-- Hey nonny no! Black Ribs is singing-- Chorus--Hey, ho! What is he saying-- To and fro? ‘Singing and saying “Grass is hay--ho! Love is a longing; Water is snow.” Swinging and swaying, Toll the bells go! Dinging and donging To and fro!’ ‘Oh, Charley!’ said his sister, with suppressed agony, ‘what a wicked song!’ ‘It _is_ a wicked song,’ I said. ‘But I meant----it only represents an unbelieving, hopeless mood.’ ‘_You_ wrote it, then!’ she said, giving me--as it seemed, involuntarily--a look of reproach. ‘Yes, I did; but--’ ‘Then I think you are very horrid,’ said Clara, interrupting. ‘Charley!’ I said, ‘you must not leave your sister to think so badly of me! You know why I wrote it--and what I meant.’ ‘I wish I had written it myself,’ he returned. ‘I think it splendid. Anybody might envy you that song.’