“That there was not a Kiss behind the Garden-gate,” says he, laughing. “O fie, Cherry!”
I felt quite ashamed; and said it was very silly to tell Dreams, or to believe in them.
“Why, yes,” said he seriously, “it is foolish to believe in the disjointed Images thrown together by a distempered Fancy; though aforetime it oft pleased our Heavenly Father to communicate his Will to his Servants through the Avenues of their sleeping Senses. How should you and I be walking in a Garden together? There are no Gardens in Whitechapel, Cherry. In Berkshire, indeed, my Brother the Squire has a Garden something like what you describe, full of Roses, Pinks, and Gilly-flowers, with great, flourished iron Gates, and broad, turfen Walks, and Arbours, like green Wigs, and clipped Hedges full of Snails, and Ponds full of Fish. If I go down there to get well, Cherry, as peradventure I may, for I shall want setting up again before I’m fit for Work—(I’ve fallen away till I’m as thin as Don Quixote!) I’ll ask his Wife to invite you down, Cherry, to see the Garden; and then we’ll look up all those Flowers we were talking about.”
“Thank you kindly, Sir,” said I, sorrowfully, “but I don’t think I can go.... I must be looking for my Father.”
“Your Father!” cries he, in Amaze. “Why, dear Cherry, I thought you told me he was dead!”
I tried to answer him, but could not, and fell a-sobbing.
“Come,” says he, quite moved, “I want to hear all this sad Story.”
When I was composed enough to tell it him, he listened with deep Attention, and I saw a Tear steal down his Cheek.
“Cherry,” says he at length, “you must give over hoping he will return, my Dear. There is not a Likelihood of it. Consider how long a Time has elapsed since he went forth; and how many, as dear to their Families as your Father to you, have been cut off in the Streets at a Moment’s Notice, and carried off to the Dead-pits before they were recognised. For such awful Casualties the Good are not unprepared. Instead of carrying back Infection and Desolation to his Home, and lingering for Hours and Days in unspeakable Agonies, the good Man was doubtless carried at once to the Bosom of his God.”
Then he spake Words that killed Hope, and yet brought Healing; and after weeping long and plentifully, I began to see Things as he did, and to feel convinced I should see my Father’s Face no more: which, indeed, I never did.