and easy-chair standing just as it used; only, if one looked out of
the window, instead of the belt of green circling meadows, dotted
over by grazing cattle there was the lawn and the mulberry tree--a
little narrow and homely, but still pleasant.

Carrie's eyes looked very vague and misty when I left her and went
down to Dot. Allan had put him to bed, but he would not hear of going
to sleep; he had his dormice beside him, and Jumbles was curled up at
the foot of the bed; he wanted to show me his seaweed and shells, and
tell me about the sea.

"I can't get it out of my head, Essie," he said, sitting up among
his pillows and looking very wide-awake and excited. "I used to fall
asleep listening to the long wash and roll of the waves, and in the
morning there it was again. Don't you love the sea?"

"Yes, dearly, Dot; and so does Allan."

"It reminded me of the "Pilgrim's Progress"--just the last part.
Don't you remember the river that every one was obliged to cross?
Carrie told me it meant death." I nodded; Dot did not always need an
answer to his childish fancies, he used to like to tell them all out
to Allan and me. "One night," he went on, "my back was bad, and I
could not sleep, and Carrie made me up a nest of pillows in a big
chair by the window, and we sat there ever so long after mother was
fast asleep.

"It was so light--almost as light as day--and there were all sorts
of sparkles over the water, as though it were shaking out tiny stars
in play; and there was one broad golden path--oh! it was so beautiful