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The walls of the room were made of new pinewood and only varnished with oil, so that all the knots were visible. And the knots in the knot-holes looked for all the world like so many eyes.

“Oh! Just look at all the eyes, mammy,” exclaimed the little girl.

Yes, there were eyes of every description; big eyes, eloquent eyes, grave eyes; little shining baby eyes, with a lurking smile in the corner; wicked eyes, which showed too much white; frank and candid eyes, which looked one straight into the heart; and, over there, a big, gentle mother’s eye, which regarded the dead girl lovingly; and a transparent tear of resin trembled on the lid, and sparkled in the setting sun like a green and red diamond.

“Is she asleep?” asked the child, looking into the face of the dead girl.

“Yes, she is asleep.”

“Is she a bride, mammy?”

“Yes, darling.”

The mother had recognised her. It was the girl who was to be a bride on Midsummer day, when her sailor lover would return home; but the sailor had written to say that he would not be home until the autumn, and his letter had broken her heart; for she could not bear to wait until the autumn, when the leaves would drop dead from the trees and the winter wind have a rough game with them in the lanes and alleys.

She had heard the song of the dove and taken it to heart.

The young mother left the cottage; now she knew where she would go. She put the heavy basket down outside the gate and took the child into her arms; and so she walked across the meadow which separated her from the shore.

The meadow was a perfect sea of flowers, waving and whispering round her ankles, and the pollen water was calm and blue; and presently it was not water through which they sailed, but the blue blossoms of the flax, which she gathered in her outstretched hands.

And the flowers bent down and rose up again, whispering, lapping against the sides of the boat like little waves. The flax-field before them appeared to be infinite, but presently a white mist enveloped them, and they heard the plashing of real waves, but above the mist they heard a lark singing.

“How does the lark come to sing on the sea?” asked the child.

“The sea is so green that the lark takes it for a meadow,” answered the mother.

The mist had dispersed again. The sky was blue and the lark was still singing.

Then they saw, straight before them, in the middle of the sea, a green island with a white, sandy beach, and people, dressed all in pure white, walking hand in hand. The setting sun shone on the golden roof of a colonnade, where white fires burnt in sacred sacrificial vessels; and the green island was spanned by a rainbow, the colour of which was rose-red and sedge-green.

“What is it, mammy?”

The mother could make no reply.

“Is it the Kingdom of Heaven of which the dove sang? What is the Kingdom of Heaven, mammy?”

“A place, darling, where all people love one another,” answered the mother, “where there is neither grief nor strife.”

“Then let us go there,” said the child.

“Yes, we will go,” said the tired, forsaken little mother.