'What's the tree of life?' asked True.
Bobby pointed inside the gate to a big beech-tree halfway up the drive.
'It's like that, but it has lovely golden apples on it. And the angels stand at the gate, and won't let nobody frough with a dirty dress.'
True glanced at her brown holland frock, which was smeared with green.
'My frocks never keep clean after half an hour,' she said with a little sigh.
'You have to get a nice white frock from Jesus,' went on Bobby, pleased with his role as teacher.
'He washes your dirty one in His blood. You know, when He died on the cross, that's how He shed His blood. And it turns all dirty things white and clean. Lady Is'bel teached me it did.'
'I don't believe Jesus Christ really washes frocks,' said True. 'I've never heard He does. It would be—be like a washerwoman.'
Bobby leant across to her eagerly.
'You don't un'stand prop'ly. It's a inside white frock over our hearts. Nobody sees it but Jesus and the angels at the gate—and God. Our hearts are quite dirty and black till we ask Jesus to wash them and put the white dress on. Why, I had mine done long ago—d'reckly I heard 'bout it. You ought to have yours. You'll never get inside the gates if you don't, and it would be quite dre'fful to be shut out.