DEBORAH'S BOOK.
tion of conveying a false impression to my mind, though she certainly did so; for. I recollect asking her distinctly, whether she thought I might go on a pilgrimage. Whereupon she answered, 'Surely, surely, Miss Rosamond.'
I might, then!
She also told me that the narrow road along which Christian went, and which led to the city of the golden gates, was the road that we all ought to walk in; and, without at all explaining the allegory, she proceeded to say that it led to heaven.
I went to bed resolved to go on pilgrimage, and when, the next morning, I was told to put on my bonnet and tippet, to go out and play as usual, I took all the pieces of bread that I had saved, and my favorite Dutch doll with a red frock, that I thought I could not part with, and went out.
I went through the garden, and into the little belt of wood. Here I sat down, and began to ponder. Assuredly the wonderful story had said that there was but one way to get to heaven, and that was through the wicket gate. How should I, O, how should I find this wicket gate! I think that, in my perplexity and fear lest it was my own fault that I could not find the gate, I began to cry; certainly I have a sort of recollection that my eyes were dazzled and dim, and that when they cleared, some small brown object, which stood at my feet, upon a dwarf fox-glove, suddenly spread open a pair of lovely blue wings. A butterfly! O, the most beautiful little butterfly in the world! All thoughts of pilgrimage fled away as it fluttered its wings and floated oft' to another flower, drawing me
