"My mother talked about heaven, Master Treffy; and she said she was going home. 'Home, sweet home,' that was the last thing she sang. I expect that 'Home, sweet home,' is somewhere in heaven, Master Treffy; I expect so. It's a good place, so my mother said."
"Yes," said old Treffy, "I suppose it is; but I can't help thinking I shall be very strange there, Christie, very strange indeed. I know so little about it, so very little, Christie, boy."
"Yes," said Christie, "and I don't know much."
"And I don't know any one there, Christie; you won't be there, nor any one that I know; and I shall have to leave my poor old organ; you don't suppose they'll have any barrel-organs there, will they, Christie?"
"No," said Christie, "I never heard my mother speak of any; I think she said they played on harps in heaven."
"I shan't like that half so well," said old Treffy, sorrowfully; "I don't know how I shall pass my time."
Christie did not know what to say to this, so he made no answer.
"Christie, boy," said old Treffy, suddenly, "I want you to make out about heaven, I want you to find out all about it for me; maybe, I shouldn't feel so strange there if I knew what I was going to; and your mother called it 'Home, sweet home,' didn't she, Christie?"
"Yes," said Christie, "I'm almost sure it was heaven she meant."
"Now, Christie, boy, mind you make out," said Treffy, earnestly; "and remember there's only another month! only another month!"