This audio was created with an artificial voice for the audiobook initiative on Sermon Audio. Chapter Two. The New Home. But no childish tears or lamentations could bring the dead back to life. That dark, sad week passed slowly away. My mother was laid to rest in the quiet earth, and I was taken away from the home I had learned to love to Aunt Mary's home in the country. Looking back to those days, I often think I must have seemed very sullen and ungrateful. I learned to love Aunt Mary as she called herself very soon. Who could help loving anyone so beautiful and gentle? And yet I was half ashamed of my love. I almost tried to fight it down, fancied that it was wrong to love anyone but my dear dead mother. I would not talk, nor smile, nor be interested in anything she told me. In fact, lonely and miserable as I was and must be, I tried to make myself yet more utterly wretched. But Aunt Mary was very patient, and nothing I ever said or did ruffled her sweet serenity for a moment. I cried as though my heart would break when the day came for us to leave the dull London lodgings and go out into new scenes in a new world. I had no spark of interest in the unknown future. I had been too long shut up in one place even to wish for a change. I shrank with intense nervous dread from the sight of strange faces. I wished that I had died too when my mother did, although I had a great dread of the dark mystery of death. All through the hours of the railway journey I never once lifted my head to look about me, but kept myself crouched down in my corner and sobbed as though my heart would break. The consequence was that by the time we had reached our destination I had cried myself into the deep sleep of exhaustion, and I never knew anything about my first entrance into my new home. I shall never forget the strange feelings with which I woke. When my eyes opened, I gave a great start, and gazed and gazed, not knowing what could have befallen me. In reality, I was lying on a couch in a great bay window, and what I saw was through glass. But the panes were so large and clear, undimmed by London's smoke and fog, that I believed myself for a while to be out of doors in the midst of it, instead of in a first-floor room, as was really the case. It was the close of a very warm March day, and light, soft, quivering and tender lay in all its wondrous beauty upon the tall, ruddy stems of a belt of pine trees which rose solemn and stately not many hundred yards away from my window. All else that I could see was a stretch of smooth green grass, which sloped gently up from the house till it reached the belt of woodland beyond, and where the trees and greensward met was a thick growth of evergreen shrubs. It does not sound very much described, but to me The trees were still bare in other places, but the pines bore their unfading feathery foliage, and the sunlight shone upon them softly and steadily till they glowed a solemn dusky red. There was music in the air from the throats of happy birds, a soft, sweet twittering, the like of which I had never heard before. The very grass and shrubs were tinged with rose-colour, and the deep peaceful hush of all around filled my whole heart with a vague sense of bewilderment, rapture, and awe. Where was I? What had befallen me? For one moment I thought that I too had died, and that this was heaven, and I trembled with a great dread. Then I looked more closely about me and found that I was in a room, larger and far prettier than any of which I had ever dreamed before. There was a little white bed in one corner, there was a table with flowers upon it in the centre, there were a wardrobe, a bookcase, a tempting-looking carved cupboard, and many other pretty things which I need not mention here. But then all in a moment I realized where I was. This was the home of which Aunt Mary had spoken. The old happy life had closed forever, and a new one had begun. What would it be like? Just now I was in no mood to be cheerful. A great wave of desolation swept over me, but the tears would not come. I think I had none left to shed. I continued to gaze out of the window dismally enough, when all of a sudden I saw something that attracted my attention and excited my curiosity. And as I was alone, with no one to observe me, I allowed myself to look with interest at what now became visible to me as I lay. Out from the wood, through the thick green of the shrubbery, pushed his way slowly a great mastiff dog, a dog far larger and more majestic than any which I had ever seen before. Closely following him came two boys, one of whom had thrown his arm caressingly round the shoulders of his smaller companion. In a moment I knew who they were, Aunt Mary's two nephews Geoffrey and Ted, the boys who were to be my playmates and companions. I knew too which was which as they stood there in the bright sunlight. the tall, well-grown boy of twelve, with the brown open face and fair hair, was Geoffrey. He looked to me very much like a great many boys whom I had looked down upon from my high window as they passed to and fro in the street. I was not greatly interested in his appearance, but there was something in the grace and beauty of the nine-year-old Ted that fascinated me at once. His dark hair was so soft and silky, the colouring of his delicately formed face so rich and beautiful. His eyes were so large and dark and bright, and his every movement so full of grace, that I felt I should never be tired of looking at him. I shall be fond of that one," I murmured to myself, and I watched him eagerly as he began to bound hither and thither in romping glee with his brother and the dog, till at last their movements carried them beyond the range of my vision, and I was left with tears in my eyes, saying to myself, Oh, why was I made lame and weak? And in this mood Aunt Mary found me. Her sweet smiles and kind words ought to have cheered me, but I was still half ashamed of being anything but miserable. I would not say how beautiful I found everything. I let the tears gather in my eyes and did not try to wipe them away. Jeffrey and Ted are very pleased that you have come, said Aunt Mary presently. They would like to come and see you soon. But I turned my head sullenly away and said, I don't want to see them. Why not, my child? I never did know any boys and I don't want to. I'm lame. Why should I be lame? Other boys are not. Aunt Mary did not answer for a moment, and then she spoke very gently. Darling, you know who sends you this trial to bear? I suppose so, I answered sullenly. Does not that make it easier to bear? No. And yet your father loves you, Arnold. He will help you to bear the cross he has sent you. I don't believe it, I answered passionately. If he loved me, he wouldn't have taken my mother away. I could bear it. I could be patient when she was here. But now I can't. Aunt Mary made no answer in words to this wild speech, of which I was half afraid as soon as I had spoken it. She only bent her head and kissed me gently, murmuring, poor little Arnold, poor little orphan boy, and she said no more about a visit from my cousins that night, yet I was miserable and felt very wicked although Aunt Mary had not scolded me. I knew how grieved my mother would have been had she heard my wicked words. She had tried so hard to teach me to love our Heavenly Father, and sometimes, whilst listening to her words, I had thought I did love Him. But it could not have been a real love, for as soon as her gentle presence was removed from me, my heart was full of bitterness against Him. I knew I did not truly love him. I felt utterly wretched and alone, and I cried myself to sleep that night as I had done many nights previously. It was hardly a good beginning of life in the new home. End of chapter two, The New Home. This audio was created with an artificial voice for the audiobook initiative on Sermon Audio. There may be mispronunciations or occasional repetitions. To report a mistake, please email us at info at sermonaudio.com and include the sermon ID or title of the message and the time at which the error occurs. We will do our best to get it corrected for future listeners.