n the following Sunday evening, as he intended
then to preach on the second verse of the hymn, and to tell them, more
fully than he had time to do to-night, what was the only way to enter
within the gates into the city.

Christie walked home very sadly and sorrowly; he was in no haste to meet
old Treffy's anxious, inquiring eyes. And when he reached the dark attic
he sat down by Treffy, and looked away from him into the fire, as he
said, mournfully:--

"Your dream was quite right, Master Treffy. I've heard it all over again
to-night. He preached about it, and we sang about it, so there's no
mistake now."

"Tell me all, Christie, boy," said Treffy, pitifully.

"It's a beautiful place, Master Treffy," said Christie; "you'd be ever
so happy and comfortable if you could only get there. But there's no sin
allowed inside the gates; that's what the clergyman, said, and what the
hymn said too:--

"'There is a city bright,
Closed are its gates to sin.'"

"Then there's no chance for me, Christie," said the old man, "no chance
for me."

And hours after that, when Christie thought Treffy was fast asleep on
his bed in the corner, he heard his poor old trembling voice murmuring
again and again: "Closed are its gates to sin, closed are its gates to
sin."

And there was another ear listening to old Treffy's voice. The man at
the gate, of whom Bunyan writes, had heard the old man's sorrowful wail,
and it went to his very heart. He knew all about old Treffy, and he was
soon to say to him, with tones of love, as he opened the gate of rest:
"I am willing with all my heart to let thee in."

CHAPTER VI.

THE ONLY WAY INTO "HOME, SWEET HOME."

That week was a very long and sorrowful one to Treffy and to Christie.
The old man seldom spoke, except to murmur the sad words of the hymn, or
to say to Christie in a despairing voice,--

"It's all up with me, Christie, boy; no home for me."

The barrel-organ was quite neglected by Treffy. Christie took it out in
the daytime, but at night it stood against the wall untouched. Treffy
could not bear to hear it now. Christie had begun to turn it one
evening, but the first tune it had played was "Home, sweet Home," and
Treffy had said bitterly,--

"Don't play that, Christie, boy; there's no 'Home, sweet home,' for me;
I shall never have a home again, never again."

So Treffy had nothing to comfort him. Even his old organ seemed to have
taken part against him; even his de