"Well, that's the beautiful garden I've been telling you about, and
God is your good father. You can begin your journey there this very
day if you like."

"Is it a very long journey?--and will you go with me? Is there
really, _really_ such a garden? Oh, tell me where it is!"

"I desire nothing in the world so much as to lead you there, but the
path is rough and steep; I cannot carry you in my arms along that
road; you must walk on your own little feet, and I am afraid they
will sometimes get--very tired."

"You know, mother, I never do get tired when I am going to a
pleasant place; but, oh, dear! I do believe now it is all a
dream-story; you smiled and kissed me just as if it were."

"No, you need not look so disappointed, little one, for though it is
something like a 'dream-story,' there is nothing in the world half
so true and real. Think in that little head of yours, and tell me
what seems to you most like this beautiful garden."

"I cannot think of anything at all like it, except heaven.--Oh,
yes!--that is it! Heaven, is it not?"

"And what is heaven?"

"The place where good people go when they die."

"Think again. What is heaven?"