s, as you call it, up
there. We can trust all that to God, however it may be."

William lay looking upward at the sky, apparently in thought, a dark
blue, serene sky, from which shone the hot July sun. His bed had been
moved toward the window, for he liked to sit in it, and look at the
landscape. The window was open now, and the butterflies and bees sported
in the summer air.

"I wonder how it will be?" pondered he, aloud. "There will be the
beautiful city, its gates of pearl, and its shining precious stones, and
its streets of gold; and there will be the clear river, and the trees
with their fruits and their healing leaves, and the lovely flowers;
and there will be the harps, and music, and singing. And what else will
there be?"

"Everything that is desirable and beautiful, William; but, what we may
not anticipate here."

Another pause. "Madame Vine, will Jesus come for me, do you think, or
will He send an angel?"

"Jesus has _promised_ to come for His own redeemed--for those who love
Him and wait for Him."

"Yes, yes, and then I shall be happy forever. It will be so pleasant to
be there, never to be tired or ill again."

"Pleasant? Ay! Oh, William! Would that the time were come!"

She was thinking of herself--of her freedom--though the boy knew it not.
She buried her face in her hands and continued speaking; William had to
bend his ear to catch the faint whisper.

"'And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying: neither
shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.'"

"Madame Vine, do you think mamma will be there?" he presently asked. "I
mean mamma that was."

"Ay, ere long."

"But how shall I know her? You see, I have nearly forgotten what she was
like."

She leaned over him, laying her forehead upon his wasted arm, and burst
into a flood of impassioned tears. "You will know her, never fear,
William; she has not forgotten you."

"But how can we be sure that she will be there?" debated William, after
a pause of thought. "You know"--sinking his voice, and speaking with
hesitation--"she was not quite good; she was not good enough to papa or
to us. Sometimes I think, suppose she did not grow good, and did not ask
God to forgive her!"

"Oh, William!" sobbed the unhappy lady, "her whole life, after she
left you, was one long scene of repentance, of seeking forgiveness. Her
repentance, her sorrow, was greater than she could bear, and----"

"And what?" asked Willia