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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Joyce Morrell's Harvest, by Emily Sarah Holt
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Joyce Morrell's Harvest
+       The Annals of Selwick Hall
+
+Author: Emily Sarah Holt
+
+Illustrator: H.P.
+
+Release Date: June 3, 2008 [EBook #25691]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOYCE MORRELL'S HARVEST ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
+
+
+
+
+Joyce Morrell's Harvest, by Emily Sarah Holt.
+
+________________________________________________________________________
+This book is one of a series involving the same late sixteenth century
+family.  Its predecessor is "Lettice Eden", and its successor is "It
+might have been."  Readers may find a little difficulty with the
+language, for it is written in Elizabethan English, though that won't
+bother you if you are familiar with the plays of Shakespeare.
+
+Three young teenage girls, and their aunt Joyce are chatting together
+one evening, when one of the girls suggests they might all try to keep a
+journal.  The idea is scoffed at, because, it was said, nothing ever
+happens in their neck of the woods.  A few exaggerated examples of the
+daily events that might be recorded were given, but nonetheless, they
+applied to their father for the paper, pens and ink, that they would
+need, and set to work, taking it in turns to write up the journal.
+
+It is slightly annoying that every proper name is written in italics,
+which your reviewer found rather unusual, but you can get used to
+anything, and once you have done that it doesn't seem too bad.
+
+The author was said to be a good historian, and so you will find the
+book informative and interesting, as the great issues of the day are
+discussed, many of them being of a religious nature.
+
+________________________________________________________________________
+JOYCE MORRELL'S HARVEST, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT.
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+Those to whom "Lettice Eden" is an old friend will meet with many
+acquaintances in these pages.  The lesson is partly of the same type--
+the difference between that which seems, and that which is; between the
+gold which will stand the fire, and the imitation which the flame will
+dissolve in a moment; between the true diamond, small though it be,
+which is worth a fortune, and the glittering paste which is worth little
+more than nothing.
+
+But here there is a further lesson beyond this.  It is one which God
+takes great pains to teach us, and which we, alas! are very slow to
+learn.  "Tarry thou the Lord's leisure."  In the dim eyes of frail
+children of earth, God's steps are often very slow.  We are too apt to
+forget that they are very sure.  But He will not be hurried: He has
+eternity to work in, "If we ask anything according to His will, He
+heareth us."  How many of us, who fancied their prayers unheard because
+they could not see the answer, may find that answer, rich, abundant,
+eternal, in that Land where they shall know as they are known!  Let us
+wait for God.  We shall find some day that it was worth while.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER ONE.
+
+THE DWELLERS AT SELWICK HALL.
+
+"He would be on the mountain's top, without the toil and travail of the
+climbing."--Tupper.
+
+             SELWICK HALL, LAKE DERWENTWATER, OCTOBER YE FIRST, MDLXXIX.
+It came about, as I have oft noted things to do, after a metely deal of
+talk, yet right suddenly in the end.
+
+Aunt _Joyce_, _Milly_, _Edith_, and I, were in the long gallery.  We had
+been talking a while touching olden times (whereof Aunt _Joyce_ is a
+rare hand at telling of stories), and _Mother's_ chronicle she was wont
+to keep, and hath shown us, and such like matter.  When all at once
+quoth _Edith_--
+
+"Why should not _we_ keep a chronicle?"
+
+"Ay, why not?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, busied with her sewing.
+
+_Milly_ fell a-laughing.
+
+"Dear heart, _Edith_, and what should we put in a chronicle?" saith she.
+"`_Monday_, the cat washed her face.  _Tuesday_, it rained.
+_Wednesday_, _Nell_ made a tansy pudding.  _Thursday_, I lost my temper.
+_Friday_, I found it again.  _Saturday_, _Edith_ looked in the mirror,
+and Aunt _Joyce_ made an end of a piece of sewing.'  Good lack, it shall
+be a rare jolly book!"
+
+"Nay, I would never set down such stuff as that," answered _Edith_.
+
+"Why, what else is there?" saith _Milly_.  "We have dwelt hither ever
+since we were born, saving when we go to visit Aunt _Joyce_, and one day
+is the very cut of an other.  Saving when Master _Stuyvesant_ came
+hither, nought never happened in this house since I was born."
+
+"Would'st love better a life wherein matters should happen, _Milly_?"
+saith Aunt _Joyce_, looking up at her, with a manner of face that I
+knew.  It was a little mirthful, yet sorrowful withal.
+
+"Ay, I would so!" quoth she.
+
+"Child," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer, "`happy is the man that hath no
+history.'"
+
+"But things do happen, _Milly_," saith _Edith_.  "Thou hast forgot
+_Anstace_ her wedding."
+
+"_That_ something happening!" pouts _Milly_.  "Stupid humdrum business!
+Do but think, to wed a man that dwelleth the next door, which thou hast
+known all thy life!  Why, I would as lief not be wed at all, very nigh."
+
+"It seemed to suit _Anstace_," puts in _Edith_.
+
+"Aught should do that."
+
+"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, something drily, "`godliness is great riches,
+if a man be content with that he hath.'"  [Note 1.]
+
+"Easy enough, trow, when you have plenty," quoth _Milly_.
+
+"Nay, it is hardest then," saith she.  "`Much would have more.'"
+
+"What wist Aunt _Joyce_ thereabout?" murmurs _Milly_, so that I could
+just hear.  "She never lacked nought she wanted."
+
+"Getting oldish, _Milly_, but not going deaf, thank God," saith Aunt
+_Joyce_, of her dry fashion.  "Nay, child, thou art out there.  Time was
+when I desired one thing, far beyond all other things in this world, and
+did not get it."
+
+"Never, _Aunt_?"
+
+"Never, _Milly_."  And a somewhat pained look came into her face, that
+is wont to seem so calm.
+
+"What was it, Aunt _Joyce_, sweet heart?"
+
+"Well, I took it for fine gold, and it turned out to be pinchbeck,"
+saith she.  "There's a deal of that sort of stuff in this world."
+
+Methought _Milly_ feared to ask further, and all was still till _Edith_
+saith--
+
+"Would you avise us, Aunt _Joyce_, to keep a chronicle, even though
+things did not happen?"
+
+"Things will happen, trust me," she made answer.  "Ay, dear maids,
+methinks it should be profitable for you."
+
+"Now, Aunt _Joyce_, I would you had not said that!"
+
+"Why, _Milly_?"
+
+"By reason that things which be profitable be alway dry and gloomsome."
+
+"Not alway, _Lettice Eden's_ daughter."
+
+I could not help but smile when Aunt _Joyce_ said this.  For indeed,
+_Mother_ hath oft told us how, when she was a young maid like _Milly_,
+she did sorely hate all gloom and sorrowfulness, nor could not abide for
+to think thereon.  And _Milly_ is much of that turn.
+
+"Then which of us shall keep the grand chronicle?" saith _Edith_, when
+we had made an end of laughing.
+
+"Why not all of you?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_.  "Let each keep it a month
+a-piece, turn about."
+
+"And you, Aunt _Joyce_?"
+
+"Nay, I will keep no chronicles.  I would not mind an' I writ my
+thoughts down of the last page, when it was finished."
+
+"But who shall read it?" said I.
+
+"There spake _Nell_!" quoth _Milly_.  "`Who shall read it?'  Why, all
+the world, for sure, from the Queen's Majesty down to Cat and Kitling."
+
+These be our two serving-maids, _Kate_ and _Caitlin_, which _Milly_ doth
+affect dearly to call Cat and Kitling.  And truly the names come pat,
+the rather that _Kate_ is tall and big, and fair of complexion, she
+being _Westmoreland_ born; while _Caitlin_, which is _Cumberland_ born,
+is little and wiry, and of dark complexion.  "The Queen's Majesty shall
+have other fish to fry, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "And so shall
+_Kate_ and _Caitlin_,--if they could read."
+
+"But who is to make a beginning of this mighty chronicle?" saith
+_Edith_.  "Some other than I, as I do trust, for I would never know what
+to set down first."
+
+"Let _Nell_ begin, then, as she is eldest of the three," quoth Aunt
+_Joyce_.
+
+So here am I, making this same beginning of the family chronicle.  For
+when _Father_ and _Mother_ heard thereof, both laughed at the first, and
+afterward grew sad.  Then saith _Mother_--
+
+"Methinks, dear hearts, it shall be well for you,--at the least, an' ye
+keep it truly.  Let each set down what verily she doth think."
+
+"And not what she reckons she ought to think," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Then, _Father_, will it please you give us some pens and paper?" said
+I.  "For I see not how, elsewise, we shall write a chronicle."
+
+"That speech is right, _Nell_!" puts in _Milly_.
+
+"Why, if we dwelt on the banks of the _Nile_, in _Egypt_," saith
+_Father_, "reeds and bulrushes should serve your turn: or, were ye old
+_Romans_, a waxen tablet and iron stylus.  But for _English_ maidens
+dwelling by Lake _Derwentwater_, I count paper and pens shall be
+wanted--and ink too, belike.  Thou shalt have thy need supplied,
+_Nell_!"
+
+And as this morning, when he came into the parlour where we sat
+a-sewing, what should _Father_ set down afore me, in the stead of the
+sheets of rough paper I looked to see, but this beautiful book, all full
+of fair blank paper ready to be writ in,--and an whole bundle of pens,
+with a great inkhorn.  _Milly_ fell a-laughing.
+
+"Oh dear, dear!" saith she.  "Be we three to write up all those?
+Verily, _Father_, under your good pleasure, but methinks you should pen
+a good half of this chronicle yourself."
+
+"Nay, not so much as one line," saith he, "saving those few I have writ
+already on the first leaf.  Let _Nell_ read them aloud."
+
+So I read them, as I set them down here, for without I do copy them,
+cannot I put in what was said.
+
+"_Fees and Charges of the Chronicle of Selwick Hall_.--_Imprimis, to be
+writ, turn about, by a month at each, by Helen, Milisent, and Editha
+Louvaine_."
+
+_Milly_ was stuffing her kerchief into her mouth to let her from
+laughing right out.
+
+"_Item, the said Helen to begin the said book_.
+
+"_Item, for every blot therein made, one penny to the poor_."
+
+"Oh, good lack!" from _Milly_.
+
+"I care not, so _Father_ give us the pennies," from _Edith_.
+
+"I reckon that is what men call a dividing of labour," saith _Father_ in
+his dry way.  "I to pay the pennies, and _Edith_ to make the blots.
+Nay, my maid: the two must come of one hand."
+
+"Then both of yours, _Father_," saith _Milly_, saucily.
+
+"_Item, for every unkind sentence touching an other, two pence to the
+poor_."
+
+"Lack-a-daisy!" cries _Milly_; "I shall be ruined!"
+
+"Truth for once," quoth Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"I am sorry to hear it, my maid," saith _Father_.
+
+"_Item, for every sentence disrespectful to any in lawful authority over
+the writer thereof, sixpence to the poor_."
+
+"_Father_," quoth _Milly_, "by how much mean you to increase mine income
+while this book is a-writing?"
+
+_Father_ smiled, but made no further answer.
+
+"_Item, for a gap of so much as one week, without a line herein writ,
+two pence to the poor_."
+
+"That is it which shall work my ruin," saith _Edith_, a-laughing.
+
+"Therein art thou convict of laziness," quoth _Father_.
+
+"_Item, on the ending of the said book, each of them that hath writ the
+same shall read over her own part therein from the beginning: and for so
+many times as she hath gainsaid her own words therein writ, shall
+forfeit each time one penny to the poor_."
+
+"That will bring both _Edith_ and me to beggary," quoth _Milly_, "Only
+_Nell_ shall come off scot-free.  _Father_, have you writ nought that
+will catch her?"
+
+"_Item, the said book shall, when ended, but not aforetime, be open to
+the reading of Aubrey Louvaine, Lettice Louvaine, Joyce Morrell, and
+Anstace Banaster_."
+
+"And none else?  Alack the day!" saith _Milly_.
+
+"I said not whom else," quoth _Father_.  "Be that as it like you."
+
+But I know well what should like me,--and that were, not so much as one
+pair of eyes beyond.  _Milly_, I dare reckon--but if I go on it shall
+cost me two pence, so I will forbear.
+
+"Well!" saith _Edith_, "one thing will I say, your leave granted,
+_Father_: and that is, I am fain you shall not read my part till it be
+done.  I would lief be at my wisest on the last page."
+
+"Dear heart!  I look to be wise on no page," cries _Milly_.
+
+"Nay," said I, "I would trust to be wise on all."
+
+"There spake our _Nell_!" cries _Milly_.  "I could swear it were she,
+though mine eyes were shut close."
+
+"This book doth somewhat divert me, _Joyce_," quoth _Father_, looking at
+her.  "Here be three writers, of whom one shall be wise on each page,
+and one on none, and one on the last only.  I reckon it shall be
+pleasant reading."
+
+"And I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "they shall be reasonable true to
+themselves an' it be thus."
+
+"And I," saith _Milly_, "that my pages shall be the pleasantest of any."
+
+"_Ergo_," quoth _Father_, "wisdom is displeasant matter.  So it is,
+_Milly_,--to unwise folks."
+
+"Then, _Father_, of a surety my chronicling shall ill please you," saith
+she, a-laughing.
+
+_Father_ arose, and laid his hand upon _Milly's_ head as he passed by
+her.
+
+"The wise can love the unwise, my maid," saith he.  "How could the only
+wise God love any one of us else?"
+
+                                            SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE II.
+_Milly_ saith, and _Edith_ likewise, that I must needs set down somewhat
+touching all us,--who we be, and how many, and our names, and such like.
+Truly, it seemeth me somewhat lost labour, if none but ourselves are to
+read the same.  But as _Milly_ will have it the Queen's Majesty and all
+her Council shall be highly diverted thereby (though little, as
+methinks, they should care to know of us), I reckon, to please these my
+sisters, I must needs do their bidding.
+
+We therefore, that dwell in _Selwick_ Hall, be Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_,
+the owner thereof (that is _Father_), and Dame _Lettice_ his wife, and
+us their daughters, _Helen, Milisent_, and _Editha_.  Moreover, there is
+Aunt _Joyce Morrell_, that dwelleth in _Oxfordshire_, at _Minster
+Lovel_, but doth once every five year tarry six months with us, and we
+with her the like: so that we see each the other once in every two or
+three years.  'Tis but a week Aunt _Joyce_ hath been hither, so all the
+six months be to run.  And here I should note she is not truly our aunt,
+but _Father's_ cousin, her mother being sister unto his mother: but
+_Father_ had never no brother nor sister, and was bred up along, with
+these his cousins, Aunt _Joyce_ and Aunt _Anstace_, after whom mine
+eldest sister hath her name: but Aunt _Anstace_ hath been dead these
+many years, afore any of us were born.  I would I had known her; for to
+hear them talk of her,--_Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_,--I
+could well-nigh think her an angel in human flesh.  Now, wherefore is
+it, for I have oft-times marvelled, that we speak more tenderly and
+reverently of folk that be dead, than of the living?  Were I to die a
+young maid, should _Milly_ (that loves to mock me now) tell her children
+henceforward of their Aunt _Helen_, as though she had been somewhat
+better than other women?  May-be.  If we could only use folks we love,
+while they do live, with the like loving reverence as we shall do after
+they be dead, if we overlive them!  Wherefore do we not so?  We do seem
+for to forget then all that we loved not in them.  Could we not essay to
+do the same a little sooner?
+
+And when _Milly_ cometh hither in her reading, as sure as her name is
+_Milisent_, shall she say,--"Now, Mistress _Nell_, there you go,
+a-riding your high horse of philosophy!  Prithee, keep to common earth."
+
+Beside those I have named, in the house dwelleth Mynheer _Floris
+Stuyvesant_, a _Dutch_ gentleman that did flee from his country when the
+persecution was in _Holland_, eleven years gone: and _Father_, which had
+a little known him aforetime when he made the grand tour, did most
+gladly welcome him hither, and made him (of his own desire) governor to
+_Ned_ and _Wat_, our brothers.  These our brothers dwell not now at
+home, for _Wat_ is squire unto my very good Lord of _Oxenford_, that is
+_Father's_ kinsman: and _Ned_ is at sea with Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_.  We
+therefore see them but rarely.  Then, beyond, there is likewise in the
+house Mistress _Elizabeth Wolvercot_, that is a cousin of _Mother_, whom
+all we do alway call Cousin _Bess_; she dwelleth with us at all times.
+Also be _Kate_ and _Caitlin_, of whom I have aforetime spoken: and old
+_Matthias_, our serving-man; and the boy, _Adam_ o' Bill's o' old
+Mall's.
+
+And here I should note that once were two of us more, _Aubrey_ and
+_Julian_: of whom _Aubrey_ died a babe, three years afore I was born,
+and _Julian_ a little maid of eleven years, between _Milly's_ birth and
+_Edith's_.  I mind her well, for she was two years elder than I, so that
+I was nine years old when she departed; but _Milly_, that was only
+three, cannot remember her.
+
+Our eldest of all, _Anstace_, is wife unto Master _Henry Banaster_, and
+dwelleth (as _Milly_ saith) next door, he having the estate joining
+_Father's_ own.  She hath two children, _Aubrey_, that is of seven
+years, and _Cicely_, that is four; beside her eldest, _Lettice_, which
+did decease in the cradle.
+
+I reckon I have told all now, without I name the cows, which be _Daisy_,
+and _Molly_, and _Buttercup_, and _Rose_, and _Ladybird_, and _June_;
+and the great house-dog, which is _Clover_; and the cat, which is a
+_Spanish_ cat [a tortoise-shell cat, then a rarity], her name _Hermosa_
+(the which _Ned_ gave her, saying a _Spanish_ cat should have a
+_Spanish_ name, and _Hermosa_ signifieth beautiful in that tongue), but
+_Caitlin_ will make it _Moses_, and methinks she is called _Moses_ more
+than aught else.  She hath two kits, that be parti-coloured like
+herself, their names (given of _Milly) Dan_ and _Nan_.
+
+And now I feel well-nigh sure I have said all.
+
+Nay, and forgat the horses!  _Milly_ will laugh at me, for she dearly
+loveth an horse.  We have six riding-horses, with two baggage-horses,
+but only four of them have names,--to wit, _Father's_, that is
+_Favelle_, because he is favel-colour [chestnut]; and _Mother's,
+Garnet_; and mine, _Cowslip_; and the last, that _Milly_ or _Edith_ doth
+commonly ride when we journey, is called _Starlight_.
+
+And now I have verily told every thing.
+
+(_At this point the handwriting of the chronicle changes_.)
+
+'Tis not yet my turn to write, but needs must, or it shall cause me to
+split in twain with laughter.  Here is our _Nell_, reckoning three times
+o'er that she hath told all, and finding somewhat fresh every time, and
+with all her telling, hath set down never a note of what we be like, nor
+so much as the colour of one of our eyes.  So, having gat hold of her
+chronicle, I shall do it for her.  I dare reckon she was feared it
+should cost her two pence each one.  But nothing venture, nothing have;
+and _Mother_ laid down that we should write our true thoughts.  So what
+I think shall I write; and how to make _Father's_ two pence rhyme with
+_Mother's_ avisement, I leave to Mistress _Nell_ and her philosophy.
+
+_Father_ is a gentleman of metely good height, and well-presenced, but
+something heavy built: of a dark brown hair, a broad white brow, and
+dark grey eyes that be rare sweet and lovesome.  Of old time was he
+squire of the body unto my right noble Lord of _Surrey_, that was
+execute in old King _Henry's_ days.  Moreover, he is of far kin (yet not
+so far, neither) unto my most worthy Lord of _Oxenford_.  Now, sithence
+I am to write my thoughts, I must say that I would _Father_ had a better
+nose.  I cannot speak very truth and set down that I did ever admire
+_Father's_ nose.  But he hath good white teeth, and a right pleasant
+smile, the which go far to make amends for his nose.
+
+_Mother_ was right fair when she was a young maid, and is none so ill
+now.  She is graceful of carriage, very fair of complexion, and hath the
+sweetest, shining golden hair was ever seen.  Her eyes be pale grey
+[blue], right like the sky.
+
+Of us three maids, _Edith_ is best-favoured, and all that see her do say
+she is right the very picture of _Mother_, when she was young.  Next her
+am I; for though I say it, I am a deal fairer than either _Anstace_ or
+_Nell_, both which favour [resemble] _Father_, though _Nell_ is the
+liker, by reason she hath his mind as well as his face.  Now, _Nell_ is
+all ways slower than _Edith_ and me, and nothing like so well-favoured.
+
+But for beauty, the least I did ever see in any man is in Mynheer
+_Stuyvesant_, which hath a flat nose and a stoop in the shoulders, and
+is high and thin as a scarecrow.  Cousin _Bess_ is metely well,--she is
+rosy and throddy [plump].  For Aunt _Joyce_, I do stand in some fear of
+her sharp speeches, and will say nought of her, saving that (which she
+can not deny) she hath rosy cheeks and dark brown hair (yet not so dark
+as _Father's_), and was, I guess, a comely young maid when she were none
+elder than we.  As for _Ned_ and _Wat, Ned_ is the better-favoured, he
+having _Mother's_ nose and the rest of him _Father_; but _Wat_ (which
+favoureth _Mother_ of his colouring, yet is not so comely) a deal the
+courtlier.
+
+Now when they shall all come to read this same, trow, shall they know
+their own portraits? or shall they every one cry out, "This is not me!"
+
+So now I leave the rest to Mistress _Helen_, till it shall come to me
+next month, when I will say what I think yet again.
+
+                                             SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE V.
+(_In Helen's handwriting_.)
+
+Dear heart, but what hath _Milly_ been a-doing!  I could not think last
+night where was my book, but I was rare sleepy, and let it a-be.  And
+here this morrow do I find a good two pages all scribbled o'er of
+_Milly's_ writing.  Well! 'tis not my fault, so I trust shall not be my
+blame.
+
+And it is true, as _Milly_ saith, that she is better-favoured than I.
+As for _Anstace_, I wis not, only I know and am well assured, that I am
+least comely of the four.  But she should never have writ what she did
+touching _Father's_ nose, and if it cost me two pence, that must I say.
+I do love every bit of _Father_, right down to the tip of his nose, and
+I never thought if it were well-favoured or no.  'Tis _Father_, and that
+is all for me.  And so should it be for _Milly_,--though it be two pence
+more to say so.
+
+                                            SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE VI.
+We had been sat at our sewing a good hour this morrow,--that is,
+_Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_, and we three maids,--when all at once
+_Milly_ casts hers down with a sigh fetched from ever so far.
+
+"Weary of sewing, _Milly_?" saith _Mother_ with a smile.
+
+"Ay--no--not right that, _Mother_," quoth she.  "But here have I been
+this hour gone, a-wishing I had been a man, till it seemed me as if I
+could not abide for to be a woman no longer."
+
+"The general end of impossible wishes," saith _Mother_, laughing a
+little.
+
+"Well!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, a-biting off her thread, "in all my wishing
+never yet wished I that."
+
+"Wherefore is it, _Milly_?" saith _Mother_.
+
+"Oh, a man has more of his own way than a woman," _Milly_ makes answer.
+"And he can make some noise in the world.  He is not tied down to stupid
+humdrum matters, such like as sewing, and cooking, and distilling, and
+picking of flowers, with a song or twain by now and then to cheer you.
+A man can preach and fight and write books and make folk listen."
+
+"I misdoubt if thou art right, _Milly_, to say that a man hath the more
+of his own way always," saith _Mother_.  "Methinks there be many women
+get much of that."
+
+"Then a man is not tied down to one corner.  He can go and see the
+world," saith _Milly_.
+
+"In short," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "the moral of thy words, Milly,
+is--`Untie me.'"
+
+"I wish I were so!" mutters _Milly_.
+
+"And what should happen next?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Why, I reckon I could not do much without money," answereth _Milly_.
+
+"Oh, grant all that," quoth Aunt _Joyce_,--"money, and leave, and all
+needed, and Mistress _Milisent_ setting forth to do according to her
+will.  What then?"
+
+"Well, I would first go up to _London_," saith she, "and cut some figure
+in the Court."
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ gave a dry little laugh.
+
+"There be figures of more shapes than one, _Milly_," saith she.
+"Howbeit--what next?"
+
+"Why, then, methinks, I would go to the wars."
+
+"And bring back as many heads, arms, and legs, as thou tookest thither?"
+
+"Oh, for sure," saith _Milly_.  "I would not be killed."
+
+"Just.  Very well,--Mistress _Milisent_ back from the wars, and covered
+with glory.  And then?"
+
+"Well--methinks I would love to be a judge for a bit."
+
+"Dry work," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "And then a bishop?"
+
+"Ay, if you will."
+
+"And then?"
+
+"Why, I might as well be a king, while I went about it."
+
+"Quite as well.  I am astonished thou hast come thither no sooner.  And
+then?"
+
+"Well,--I know not what then.  You drive one on, Aunt _Joyce_.
+Methinks, then, I would come home and see you all, and recount mine
+aventures."
+
+"Oh, mightily obliged to your Highness!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_.  "I had
+thought, when your Majesty were thus up at top of the tree, you should
+forget utterly so mean a place as _Selwick_ Hall, and the contemptible
+things that inhabit there.  And then?"
+
+"Come, I will make an end," saith _Milly_, laughing.  "I reckon I should
+be a bit wearied by then, and fain to bide at home and take mine ease."
+
+"And pray, what hindereth that your Grace should do that now?" saith
+Aunt _Joyce_, looking up with a comical face.
+
+"Well, but I am not aweary, and have no aventures to tell," _Milly_
+makes answer.
+
+"Go into the garden and jump five hundred times, _Milly_, and I will
+warrant thee to be aweary and thankful for rest.  And as to aventures,--
+eh, my maid, my maid!"  And Aunt _Joyce_ and _Mother_ smiled one upon
+the other.
+
+"Now, _Mother_ and _Aunt_, may I say what I think?" cries Milly.
+
+"Prithee, so do, my maid."
+
+"Then, why do you folks that be no longer young, ever damp and chill
+young folks that would fain see the world and have some jollity?"
+
+"By reason, _Milly_, that we have been through the world, and we know it
+to be a damp place and a cold."
+
+"But all folks do not find it so?"
+
+"God have mercy on them that do not!"
+
+"Now, _Aunt_, what mean you?"
+
+"Dear heart, the brighter the colour of the poisoned sweetmeat, the more
+like is the babe to put in his mouth."
+
+"Your parable is above me, Aunt _Joyce_."
+
+"_Milly_, a maiden must give her heart to something.  The Lord's word
+unto us all is, Give Me thine heart.  But most of us will try every
+thing else first.  And every thing else doth chill and disappoint us.
+Yet thou never sawest man nor Woman that had given the heart to God,
+which could ever say with truth that disappointment had come of it."
+
+"I reckon they should be unready to confess the same," saith she.
+
+"They be ready enough to confess it of other things," quoth Aunt
+_Joyce_.  "But few folks will learn by the blunders of any but their own
+selves.  I would thou didst."
+
+"By whose blunders would you have me learn, _Aunt_?" saith _Milly_ in
+her saucy fashion that is yet so bright and coaxing that she rarely gets
+flitten [scolded] for the same.
+
+"By those of whomsoever thou seest to blunder," quoth she.
+
+"That must needs be thee, _Edith_," saith _Milly_ in a demure voice.
+"For it standeth with reason, as thou very well wist, that I shall never
+see mine elders to make no blunders of no sort whatever."
+
+"Thou art a saucy baggage, _Milly_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_.  "That shall
+cost thee six pence an' it go down in the chronicle."
+
+"Oh, 'tis not yet my turn for to write, _Aunt_.  And I am well assured
+_Nell_ shall pay no sixpences."
+
+"Fewer than thou, I dare guess," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Who has been to
+visit old _Jack Benn_ this week?"
+
+"Not I, _Aunt_," quoth _Edith_, somewhat wearily, as if she feared Aunt
+_Joyce_ should bid her go.
+
+"Oh, I'll go and see him!" cries _Milly_.  "There is nought one half so
+diverting in all the vale as old _Jack_.  _Aunt_, be all _Brownists_ as
+queer as he?"
+
+"Nay, I reckon _Jack_ hath some queer notions of his own, apart from his
+_Brownery_," quoth she.  "But, _Milly_,--be diverted as much as thou
+wilt, but let not the old man see that thou art a-laughing at him."
+
+"All right, _Aunt_!" saith _Milly_, cheerily.  "Come, _Nell_.  _Edith_
+shall bide at home, that can I see."
+
+So _Milly_ and I set forth to visit old _Jack_, and _Mother_ gave us a
+bottle of cordial water, and a little basket of fresh eggs, for to take
+withal.
+
+He dwells all alone, doth old _Jack_, in a mud cot part-way up the
+mountain, that he did build himself, ere the aches in his bones 'gan
+trouble him, that he might scantly work.  He is one of those queer folk
+that call themselves _Brownists_, and would fain have some better
+religion than they may find at church.  _Jack_ is nigh alway reading of
+his Bible, but never no man could so much as guess the strange meanings
+he brings forth of the words.  I reckon, as Aunt _Joyce_ saith, there is
+more _Jack_ than _Brownist_ in them.
+
+We found _Jack_ sitting in the porch, his great Bible on his knees.  He
+looked up when he heard our voices.
+
+"Get out!" saith he.  "I never want no women folk."
+
+'Tis not oft we have fairer greeting of _Jack_.
+
+"Nay, truly, _Jack_," saith _Milly_ right demurely.  "They be a rare bad
+handful,--nigh as ill as men folk.  What thou lackest is eggs and
+cordial water, the which women can carry as well as jackasses."
+
+She held forth her basket as she spake.
+
+"Humph!" grunts old _Jack_.  "I'd liever have the jackasses."
+
+"I am assured thou wouldst," quoth _Milly_.  "Each loveth best his own
+kind."
+
+Old _Jack_ was fingering of the eggs.
+
+"They be all hens' eggs!"
+
+"So they be," saith _Milly_.  "I dare guess, thou shouldst have loved
+goose eggs better."
+
+"Ducks'," answereth old _Jack_.
+
+"The ducks be gone a-swimming," saith she.
+
+I now drew forth my bottle of cordial water, the which the old man took
+off me with never a thank you, and after smelling thereto, set of the
+ground at his side.
+
+"What art reading, _Jack_?" saith _Milly_.
+
+"What _Paul's_ got to say again' th' law," quoth he.  "'Tis a rare ill
+thing th' law, Mistress _Milisent_.  And so be magistrates, and
+catchpolls [constables] and all the lawyer folk.  Rascals, Mistress
+_Milisent_,--all rascals, every man Jack of 'em.  Do but read _Paul_,
+and you shall see so much."
+
+"Saith the Apostle so?" quoth _Milly_, and gave me a look which nigh
+o'erset me.
+
+"He saith `the law is not given unto a righteous man,' so how can they
+be aught but ill folk that be alway a-poking in it?  Tell me that,
+Mistress.  If `birds of a feather will flock together,' then a chap
+that's shaking hands every day wi' th' law mun be an ill un, and no
+mistake."
+
+"Go to, _Jack_: it signifies not that," _Milly_ makes answer.  "Saint
+_Paul_ meant that the law of God was given for the sake of ill men, not
+good men.  The laws of _England_ be other matter."
+
+"Get out wi' ye!" saith _Jack_.  "Do ye think I wis not what _Paul_
+means as well as a woman?  It says th' law, and it means th' law.  And
+if he'd signified as you say, he'd have said as th' law wasn't given
+again' a righteous man, not to him.  You gi'e o'er comin' a-rumpagin'
+like yon."
+
+For me, I scarce knew which way to look, to let me from laughing.  But
+_Milly_ goes on, sad as any judge.
+
+"Well, but if lawyers be thus bad, _Jack_--though my sister's husband is
+a lawyer, mind thou--"
+
+"He's a rascal, then!" breaks in _Jack_.  "They're all rascals, every
+wastrel [an unprincipled, good-for-nothing fellow] of 'em."
+
+"But what fashion of folk be better?" saith _Milly_.  "Thou seest,
+_Jack_, we maids be nigh old enough for wedding, and I would fain know
+the manner of man a woman were best to wed."
+
+"Best let 'em all a-be," growls _Jack_.  "Women's always snarin' o' men.
+Women's bad uns.  Howbeit, you lasses down at th' Hall are th' better
+end, I reckon."
+
+"Oh, thank you, _Jack_!" cries _Milly_ with much warmth.  "Now do tell
+me--shall I wed with a chirurgeon?"
+
+"And take p'ison when he's had enough of you," quoth _Jack_.  "Nay,
+never go in for one o' them chaps.  They kills folks all th' day, and
+lies a-thinkin' how to do it all th' night."
+
+"A soldier, then?" saith _Milly_.
+
+"Hired murderers," saith _Jack_.
+
+"Come, _Jack_, thou art hard on a poor maid.  Thou wilt leave me ne'er a
+one.  Oh, ay, there is the parson."
+
+"What!" shrieks forth _Jack_.  "One o' they _Babylonian_ mass-mongers?
+Hypocrites, wolves in sheep's clothing a-pretending for to be shepherds!
+Old _'Zekiel_, he's summut to say touching them.  You get home, and
+just read his thirty-fourth chapter; and wed one o' them wastrels at
+after, if ye can!  Now then, get ye forth; I've had enough o' women.  I
+telled ye so."
+
+"Fare thee well, _Jack_," quoth _Milly_ in mocking tribulation.  "I see
+how it is,--I shall be forced to wed a lead-miner."
+
+I was verily thankful that _Milly_ did come away, for I could bear no
+longer.  We ran fast down the steep track, and once at the bottom, we
+laughed till the tears ran down.  When we were something composed, said
+I--
+
+"Shall we look in on old _Isaac Crewdson_?"
+
+"Gramercy, not this morrow," quoth _Milly_.  "_Jack's_ enough for one
+day.  Old _Isaac_ alway gives me the horrors.  I cannot do with him atop
+of _Jack_."
+
+So we came home.  But if _Milly_ love it not, then will I go by myself
+to see old _Isaac_, for he liketh me well.
+
+                                            SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE IX.
+Aunt _Joyce_ went with me yesterday to see _Isaac_.  We found him of the
+chimney-corner, whence he seldom stirreth, being now infirm.  Old _Mary_
+had but then made an end of her washing, and she was a-folding the clean
+raiment to put by.  I ran into the garden and gathered sprigs of
+rosemary, whereof they have a fine thriving bush.
+
+"Do tell me, _Mall_," said I, "how thou orderest matters, for to have
+thy rosemary thrive thus?  Our bush is right stunted to compare withal."
+
+"I never did nought to it," quoth old _Mall_, somewhat crustily.  She is
+_Jack Benn's_ sister, and truly they be something like.
+
+"Eh, Mistress _Nell_, dunna ye know?" saith _Isaac_, laughing feebly.
+"Th' rosemary always thrives well where th' missis is th' master.  Did
+ye never hear yon saying?"
+
+"Shut up wi' thy foolish saws!" saith _Mall_, a-turning round on him.
+"He's a power of proverbs and saws, Mistress _Nell_, and he's for ever
+and the day after a-thrustin' of 'em in.  There's no wit i' such work."
+
+"Eh, but there's a deal o' wit in some o' they old saws!"  _Isaac_ makes
+answer, of his slow fashion.  "Look ye now,--`_Brag's_ a good dog, but
+_Holdfast's_ better'--there's a true sayin' for ye.  Then again look
+ye,--`He that will have a hare to breakfast must hunt o'er night.'  And
+`A grunting horse and a groaning wife never fails their master.'  Eh,
+but that's true!"  And old _Isaac_ laughed, of his feeble fashion, yet
+again.
+
+"There be some men like to make groaning wives," quoth _Mall_, crustily.
+"They sit i' th' chimney-corner at their ease, and put ne'er a hand to
+the work."
+
+"That is not thy case, _Mall_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, cheerily.  "So long
+as he were able, I am well assured _Isaac_ took his share of the work.
+And now ye be both infirm and stiff of the joints, what say ye to a good
+sharp lass that should save your old bones?  I know one that should come
+but for her meat,--a good stirring maid that should not let the grass
+grow under her feet.  What sayest, _Mall_?"
+
+"What, me?" saith _Mall_.  "Eh, you'd best ask th' master.  I am none
+th' master here, howso the rosemary may thrive.  I would say she should
+ne'er earn the salt to her porridge; but I'm of no signification in this
+house, as I well wis.  You'd best ask o' them as is."
+
+"Why, then, we mun gi'e th' porridge in," quoth _Isaac_.  "Come, _Mall_,
+thou know'st better, lass."
+
+But old _Mary_, muttering somewhat we might not well hear, went forth to
+fetch in a fresh armful of linen from the hedge.
+
+"What hath put her out, _Isaac_?" asks Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, there's no telling!" saith he.  "'Tis not so much
+as puts her in.  She's easy put out, is _Mall_: and 'tis no good on
+earth essaying to pull her in again.  You'd best let her be.  She'll
+come in of hersen, when she's weary of threapin'."  [Grumbling,
+fault-finding.]
+
+"I reckon thou art weary first, most times," saith _Aunt_.
+
+"Well!  I've ay kept a good heart up," quo' he.  "`The still sow eateth
+all the draff,' ye ken.  I've bore wi' _Mall_ for fifty year, and it
+comes easier than it might to an other man.  And the Lord has bore wi'
+me for seventy odd.  If He can bear wi' me a bit longer, I reckon I can
+wi' _Mall_."
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ smiled on old _Isaac_ as she rose up.
+
+"Ay, Goodman, that is the best way for to take it," saith she.  "And
+now, _Nell_, we must hurry home, for I see a mighty black cloud o'er
+yonder."
+
+So we home, bidding God be wi' ye to old _Mall_, in passing, and had but
+a grunt in answer: but we won home afore the rain, and found _Father_
+and _Mynheer_ a-talking in the great chamber, and _Mother_ above, laying
+of sweet herbs in the linen with _Edith_.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Note 1.  Passages from the New Testament are quoted from Cranmer's or
+the Geneva version, both then in common use.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER TWO.
+
+WHEREIN IDEAS DIFFER.
+
+"O man, little hast thou learned of truth in things most true."--Martin
+Farquhar Tupper.
+
+(_In Helen's handwriting_.)
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER THE XII.
+Well!  _Milly_ saith nought never happens in this house.  Lack-a-daisy!
+but I would fain it were so!
+
+One may love one's friends, and must one's enemies, _Father_ saith.  But
+how should one feel towards them that be nowise enemies, for they mean
+right kindly, and yet not friends, seeing they make your life a burden
+unto you?
+
+Now, all our lives have I known Master _Lewthwaite_, of _Mere Lea_, and
+Mistress _Lewthwaite_ his wife, and their lads and lasses, _Nym, Jack_,
+and _Robin_, and _Alice_ and _Blanche_.  Many a game at hunt the slipper
+and blind man's buff have we had at _Mere Lea_, and I would have said
+yet may, had not a thing happed this morrow which I would right fain
+should ne'er have happened while the world stood.
+
+What in all this world should have made _Nym_ so to do cannot I so much
+as conceive.  He might have found a deal fairer lasses.  Why, our
+_Milly_ and _Edith_ are ever so much better-favoured.  But to want me!--
+nor only that, but to come with so pitiful a tale, that he should go
+straight to ruin an' I would not wed with him; that I was the only maid
+in all the world that should serve against the same; and that if I
+refused, all his sins thereafter should be laid at my door!  Heard any
+ever the like?
+
+And I have no list to wed with _Nym_.  I like him--as a dozen other
+lads: but that is all.  And meseems that before I could think to leave
+_Father_ and _Mother_ and all, and go away with a man for all my life,
+he must be as the whole world to me, or I could never do it.  I cannot
+think what _Nym_ would be at.  And he saith it shall be my blame and my
+sin, if I do it not.  _Must_ I wed _Nym Lewthwaite_?
+
+I sat and pondered drearily o'er my trouble for a season, and then went
+to look for Aunt _Joyce_, whom I found in the long gallery, at her
+sewing in a window.
+
+"Well, _Nell_, what hast ado, maid?" saith she.
+
+"Pray you, Aunt _Joyce_, tell me a thing," said I.
+
+"That will I, with a very good will, my maid," saith she.
+
+"Aunt _Joyce_, if a man were to come to you and entreat you to wed with
+him, by reason that he could not (should he say) keep in the right way
+without you did help him, and that, you refusing, you should be
+blameworthy of all his after sins--what should you say to him?"
+
+I listened right earnestly for her answer.  I was woeful 'feared she
+should say, "Wed with him, _Nell_, for sure, and thus save him."
+
+"Say?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, looking up, with (it seemed me) somewhat like
+laughter in her eyes.  "Fetch him a good buffet of his ear, forsooth,
+and ask at him by what right he called himself a man."
+
+"Then you should not think you bound to save him, _Aunt_?"
+
+"Poor weak creature!  Not I," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "But whatso, Nell?
+Hast had any such a simpleton at thee?"
+
+"_Aunt_," said I, "'tis _Nym Lewthwaite_, who saith an' I wed him not,
+he shall go straight to ruin, and that I must answer unto God for all
+his sins if so be."
+
+"Ask him where he found that in the Bible," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Take
+no thought about him, _Nell_.  Trust me, if a man cannot keep straight
+without thee, he will not keep straight with thee.  Poor limping soul!
+to come halting up and plead with a weak woman to leave him put his hand
+on her shoulder, to help him o'er the stones!  `Carry me, prithee, good
+Mistress, o'er this rough place.'  Use thine own two legs, would I say
+to him, and be ashamed of thy meanness.  And I dare be sworn he calls
+himself one of the nobler sex," ends Aunt _Joyce_ with a snort of scorn.
+
+"O _Aunt_, I am so thankful you see it thus!" said I, drawing a long
+breath.  "I was so afeard you should bid me do as _Nym_ would."
+
+"Nay, not this while," quoth she, of her dry fashion.  "When we lack
+stuff for to mend the foul roads, _Nell_, we'll find somewhat fitter to
+break up than thee.  If young _Lewthwaite_ harry thee again, send him to
+me.  He'll not want to see me twice, I'll warrant."
+
+"I was 'feared I was wicked to shrink from it, _Aunt_," I made answer.
+"_Nym_ said so.  He said 'twas all self-loving and seeking of mine ease
+that alone did make me for to hesitate; and that if I had loved God and
+my neighbour better than myself, I would have strake hands with him at
+once.  And I was 'feared lest it should be true."
+
+"Ay, it is none so difficult to paint black white," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+"'Tis alway the self-lovers that cry out upon the unkindliness of other
+folks.  And thou art one of them, _Nell_, my maid, that be prone to
+reckon that must needs be right which goes against the grain.  There be
+that make self-denial run of all fours in that fashion.  They think duty
+and pleasure must needs be enemies.  Why, child, they are the best
+friends in the world.  Only _Duty_ is the elder sister, and is jealous
+to be put first.  Run thou after _Duty_, and see if _Pleasure_ come not
+running after thee to beseech thee of better acquaintance.  But run
+after _Pleasure_, and she'll fly thee.  She's a rare bashful one."
+
+"Then you count it not wrong that one should desire to be happy,
+_Aunt_?"
+
+"The Lord seems not to count it so, _Nell_.  He had scarce, methinks,
+told us so much touching the happiness of Heaven, had He meant us to
+think it ill to be happy.  But remember, maid, she that findeth her
+happiness in God hath it alway ready to her hand; while she that findeth
+her happiness in this world must wait till it come to seek her."
+
+"I would I were as good as _Father_!" said I; and I believe I fetched a
+sigh.
+
+"Go a little higher, _Nell_, while thou art a-climbing," quoth Aunt
+_Joyce_.  "`I would I were as good as _Christ_.'"
+
+"Eh, _Aunt_, but who could?" said I.
+
+"None," she made answer.  "But, _Nell_, he that shoots up into the sky
+is more like to rise than he that aims at a holly-bush."
+
+"Methinks _Father_ is higher than I am ever like to get," said I.
+
+"And if thou overtop him," she made answer, "all shall see it but
+thyself.  Climb on, _Nell_.  Thou wilt not grow giddy so long as thine
+eyes be turned above."
+
+I am so glad that Aunt _Joyce_ seeth thus touching _Nym_!
+
+                                            SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE II.
+There goeth my first two pence for a blank week.  In good sooth, I have
+been in ill case to write.  This weary _Nym_ would in no wise leave me
+be, but went to _Anstace_ and _Hal_, and gat their instance [persuaded
+them to intercede] unto _Father_ and _Mother_.  Which did send for me,
+and would know at me if I list to wed with _Nym_ or no.  And verily, so
+bashful am I, and afeared to speak when I am took on the sudden thus,
+that I count they gat not much of me, but were something troubled to
+make out what I would be at.  Nor wis I what should have befallen (not
+for that _Father_ nor _Mother_ were ever so little hard unto me, good
+lack! but only that I was stupid), had not Aunt _Joyce_ come in, who no
+sooner saw how matters stood than she up and spake for me.
+
+"Now, _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_," saith she, "both of you, fall
+a-catechising me in the stead of _Nell_.  The maid hath no list to wed
+with _Nym Lewthwaite_, and hath told me so much aforetime.  Leave her
+be, and send him away the other side of _Jericho_, where he belongs, and
+let him, an' he list, fetch back a _Syrian_ maiden with a horn o'er her
+forehead and a ring of her nose."
+
+"Wherefore didst thou not tell us so much, _Nell_, my lass?" saith
+_Father_ right kindlily, laying of his hand on my shoulder.
+
+But in the stead of answering him thankfully, as a dutiful daughter
+should, what did I but burst forth o' crying, as though he had been
+angered with me: yea, nor might I stop the same, but went on, truly I
+knew not wherefore, till _Mother_ came up and put her arms around me,
+and hushed me as she wont to do when I was a little child.
+
+"The poor child is o'erwrought," quoth she, tenderly.  "Let us leave her
+be, _Aubrey_, till she calms down.--There, come to me and have it out,
+my _Nelly_, and none shall trouble thee, trust me."
+
+Lack-a-daisy!  I sobbed all the harder for a season, but in time I
+calmed down, as _Mother_ says, and when so were, I prayed her of pardon
+for that I could be so foolish.
+
+"Nay, my lass," saith she, "we be made of body and soul, and either
+comes uppermost at times.  'Tis no good trying to live with one, which
+so it be."
+
+"Ah, the old monks made that blunder," saith _Father_, "and thought they
+could live with souls only, or well-nigh so.  And there be scores of
+other that essay to live with nought but bodies.  A man that starves his
+body is ill off, but a man that starves his soul is yet worser.  No is
+it thus, _Mynheer_?"
+
+Mynheer van _Stuyvesant_ had come in while _Father_ was a-speaking.
+
+"Ah!" saith he, "there be in my country certain called _Mennonites_,
+that do starve their natures of yonder fashion."
+
+"Which half of them,--body or soul?" saith _Father_.
+
+"Nay, I would say both two," he makes answer.  "They run right to the
+further end of every matter.  Because they read in their Bibles that `in
+the multitude of words there wanteth not sin,' therefore they do forbid
+all speech that is not of very necessity,--even a word more than needful
+is sin in their eyes.  If you shall say, `Sit you down in that chair to
+your comfort,' there are eight words more than you need.  You see?--
+there are eight sins.  `Sit' were enough.  So, one mouthful more bread
+than you need--no, no!--that is a sin.  One drop of syrup to your
+bread--not at all!  You could eat your bread without syrup.  All that is
+joyous, all that is comfortable, all that you like to do--all so many
+sins.  Those are the _Mennonites_."
+
+"What sinful men they must be!" saith _Father_.
+
+"Good lack, Master _Stuyvesant_, but think you all those folks tarried
+in _Holland_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Marry, I could count you a round
+dozen I have met in this country.  And they _be_ trying, I warrant you.
+My fingers have itched to shake them ere now."
+
+"How do they serve them when they would get them wed?" saith _Father_.
+"Quoth Master _John_ to Mistress _Bess_, `Wed me' and no more?--and
+saith she, `Ay' and no more?  A kiss, I ween, shall be a sin, for 'tis
+no wise necessary."
+
+I could not help to laugh, and so did Aunt _Joyce_ and _Mother_.
+
+"Wed!" makes answer _Mynheer_, "the _Mennonites_ wed?  Why, 'tis the
+biggest of all their sins, the wedding."
+
+"There'll not be many of them, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"More than you should think," saith he.  "There be to join them every
+year."
+
+"Well, I'll not join them this bout," quoth she.
+
+"Now, wherein doth that differ from the old monks?" saith _Father_, as
+in meditation.  "Be we setting up monasteries for _Protestants_
+already?"
+
+_Mynheer_ shrugged up his shoulders.  "They say, the _Mennonites_," he
+made answer, "that all pleasing of self is contrary unto God's Word.  I
+must do nothing that pleases me.  Are there two dishes for my dinner?  I
+like this, I like not that.  Good!  I take that I love not.  Elsewise, I
+please me.  A Christian man must not please himself--he must please God.
+And (they say) he cannot please both."
+
+"Ah, therein lieth the fallacy," saith _Father_.  "All pleasing of self
+counter unto God, no doubt, is forbidden in Holy Scripture.  But surely
+I am not bid to avoid doing God's commandments, if He command a thing I
+like?"
+
+"Why, at that rate," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "one should never search God's
+Word, nor pray unto Him,--except such as did not love it.  Methinks
+these _Mennonites_ stand o' their heads, with their heels in air."
+
+"Ah, but they say it is God's command that thou shalt not please
+thyself," saith _Mynheer_.  "Therefore, that which pleases thee cannot
+be His will.  You see?"
+
+"They do but run the old monks' notions to ground," quoth _Father_.
+"They go a bit further--that is all.  I take it that whensoever my will
+is contrary unto God's, my will must go down.  But when my will runneth
+alongside of His, surely I am at liberty to take as much pleasure in
+doing His will as I may?  `Ye have been called unto liberty,' saith
+_Paul_: `only, let not your liberty be an occasion to the flesh, but in
+love serve one another.'"
+
+"And if serving one another be pleasant unto thee, then give o'er,"
+quoth Aunt _Joyce_.  "Good lack, this world doth hold some fools!"
+
+"Pure truth, _Joyce_," saith _Father_.  "Yet, for that of monks, in good
+sooth I do look to see them back, only under other guise.  Monachism is
+human nature: and human nature will out.  If he make not way at one
+door, trust him to creep forth of an other."
+
+"But, _Aubrey_, the Church is reformed.  There is no room for monks and
+nuns, and such rubbish," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"The Church is reformed,--ay," saith he: "but human nature is not.  That
+shall not be until we see the King in His beauty,--whether by our going
+to Him in death, or by His coming to us in the clouds of heaven."
+
+"Dear heart, man!--be not alway on the watch for black clouds," quoth
+she.  "As well turn _Mennonite_ at once."
+
+"Well, `sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" _Father_ makes
+answer: "and so far thou art right, _Joyce_.  Yet it is well we should
+remember, at times, that we be not yet in Heaven."
+
+"`At times!'" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, with a laugh.  "What a blessed life
+must be thine, if those that be about thee suffer thee to forget the
+same save `at times'!  I never made that blunder yet, I can tell thee."
+
+And so she and I away, and left all laughing.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE XXII.
+This afternoon come _Hal_ and _Anstace_, with their childre.  _Milly_
+soon carried off the childre, for she is a very child herself, and can
+lake [play] with childre a deal better than I: and _Hal_ went (said he)
+to seek _Father_, with whom I found him an hour later in the great
+chamber, and both right deep in public matter, whereof I do love to hear
+them talk at times, but _Milly_ and _Edith_ be no wise compatient [the
+lost adjective of compassion] therewith.  _Anstace_ came with me to our
+chamber, and said she had list for a good chat.
+
+"Whereof be we to chat?" said I, something laughing.
+
+"Oh, there is plenty," saith she.  "We shall not be done with the
+childre this hour."
+
+"Thou wilt not, _Anstace_," said I, "for in very deed all mothers do
+love rarely to talk over their childre, and I need not save thee.  But I
+am no great talker, as thou well wist."
+
+"That do I," saith she: "for of all young maids ever I saw, thou hast
+the least list [inclination] to discourse.  But, _Nell_, I want to know
+somewhat of thee.  What ails thee at _Nym Lewthwaite_?"
+
+"Why, nothing at all," I made answer: "save that I do right heartily
+desire him to leave me be."
+
+"Good sooth, but I thought it a rare chance for thee," quoth she: "and I
+was fair astonied when _Edith_ told me thou wouldst have none ado with
+him.  But thou must mind thy shooting, _Nell_: if thou pitchest all
+thine arrows over high, thou wilt catch nought."
+
+"I want to pitch no arrows," said I.
+
+"Well, but I do desire thee to conceive," saith she, "that too much
+niceness is not good for a young maid.  'Tis all very well to go
+a-picking and a-choosing ere thou art twenty: but trust me, _Nell_, by
+the time thou comest to thirty, thou shouldst be thankful to take any
+man that will have thee."
+
+"Nay!" said I, "that shall I not."
+
+"Eh, but thou wilt," quoth she, "yea, if it were _Nym Lewthwaite_."
+
+"I won't!" said I.
+
+_Anstace_ fell a-laughing.  "Then thou wilt have to go without!" saith
+she.
+
+"Well," said I, "that could I do, may-be, nor break my heart o'er it
+neither.  But to take any that should have me,--_Anstace_, I would as
+soon sell me for a slave."
+
+"Come, _Nell_!--where didst pick up such notions?" quoth she.
+
+"Verily, I might answer thee, of the Queen's Majesty," said I: "and if I
+be not in good company enough, search thou for better.  Only, for pity's
+sake, Sister _Anstace_, do let me a-be."
+
+"Eh, I'll let thee be," saith she, and wagged her head and laughed.
+"But in good sooth, _Nell_, thou art a right queer body.  And if it
+should please the Queen's Highness to wed with _Mounseer_ [Note 1], as
+'tis thought of many it shall, then thou wilt be out of her company, and
+I shall be in.  What shalt thou do then for company?"
+
+"Marry, I can content me with Aunt _Joyce_ and Cousin _Bess_," quoth I,
+"and none so bad neither."
+
+So at after that we gat to other discourse, and after a while, when
+_Milly_ came in with the childre, we all went down into the great
+chamber, where _Father_, and _Hal_, and _Mynheer_, were yet at their
+weighty debates.  Cousin _Bess_ was sat in the window, a-sewing on some
+flannel: and Aunt _Joyce_, in the same window, but the other corner, was
+busied with tapestry-work, being a cushion that she is fashioning for a
+_Christmas_ gift for some dame that is her friend at _Minster Lovel_.
+'Tis well-nigh done; and when it shall be finished, it shall go hence by
+old _Postlethwaite_ the carrier; for six weeks is not too much betwixt
+here and _Minster Lovel_.
+
+As we came in, I heard _Father_ to say--
+
+"Truly, there is no end of the diverse fantasy of men's minds."  And
+then he brought forth some _Latin_, which I conceived not: but
+whispering unto Aunt _Joyce_ (which is something learned in that tongue)
+to say what it were, she made answer, "So many men, so many minds."
+[_Quot homines, tot sententiae_.]
+
+"Ha!" saith _Mynheer_.  "Was it not that which the Emperor _Charles_ did
+discover with his clocks and watches?  He was very curious in clocks and
+watches--the Emperor _Charles_ the Fifth--you know?--and in his chamber
+at the Monastery of _San Yuste_ he had so many.  And watching them each
+day, he found they went not all at one.  The big clock was five minutes
+to twelve when the little watch was two minutes past.  So he tried to
+make them at one: but they would not.  No, no! the big clock and the
+little watch, they go their own way.  Then said the Emperor, `Now I see
+something I saw not aforetime.  I thought I could make these clocks go
+together, but no!  Yet they are only the work of men like me.  Ah, the
+foolish man to think that I could compel men to think all alike, who are
+the work of the great God.'  You see?"
+
+"If His Majesty had seen it a bit sooner," quoth _Hal_, "there should
+have been spared some ill work both in _Spain_ and the Low Countries."
+
+_Mynheer_ saith, "Ah!" more than once, and wagged his head right sadly.
+
+"Why," quoth _Hal_, something earnestly, "mind you not, some dozen years
+gone, of the stir was made all over this realm, when the ministers were
+appointed to wear their surplices at all times of their ministration,
+and no longer to minister in gowns ne cloaks, with their hats on, as
+they had been wont?  Yea, what tumult had we then against the order
+taken by the Queen and Council, and against the Archbishop and Bishops
+for consenting thereto!  And, all said, what was the mighty ado about?
+Why, whether a man should wear a black gown or a white.  Heard one ever
+such stuff?"
+
+"Ah, _Hal_, that shall scantly serve," saith _Father_.  "Mind, I pray
+thee, that the question to the eyes of these men was somewhat far
+otherwise.  Thou wouldst not say that _Adam_ and _Eva_ were turned forth
+of _Paradise_ by reason they plucked an apple?"
+
+"But, I pray you, Sir _Aubrey_, what was the question?" saith _Mynheer_.
+"For I do not well know, as I fain should."
+
+"Look you," quoth _Father_, "in the beginning of the Book of Common
+Prayer, and you shall find a rubric, that `such ornaments of the church
+and of the ministers thereof, at all times of their ministration, shall
+be retained and be in use, as were in this Church of _England_, by the
+authority of Parliament, in the second year of King _Edward_ the
+Sixth.'"
+
+"But they were not retained," breaks in _Hal_, that will alway be first
+to speak of aught.
+
+(Lack-a-day! shall that cost me two pence?)
+
+"They were not retained," repeateth _Father_, "but the clergy took to
+ministering in their gowns and other common apparel, such as they ware
+every day, with no manner of vestments of no sort.  Whereupon, such
+negligence being thought unseemly, it pleased the Queen's Majesty,
+sitting in her Council, and with consent of the Archbishop and Bishops,
+to issue certain injunctions for the better ordering of the Church: to
+wit, that at all times of their ministration the clergy should wear a
+decent white surplice, and no other vestment, nor should minister in
+their common apparel as aforetime."
+
+"Then the rubric touching the garments as worn under King _Edward_ was
+done away?" saith _Mynheer_.
+
+"Done away completely," quoth _Hal_, afore _Father_ could speak.
+
+"But not by Parliament?" answers _Mynheer_.
+
+"Good lack, what matter?" saith _Hal_.  "The Queen's Majesty is supreme
+in this Church of _England_.  If she issue her injunctions through her
+great Council, or her little Council, or her Bishops, they are all one,
+so they be her true injunctions."
+
+"These were issued through the Bishops," saith _Father_, "though
+determined on in the Privy Council."
+
+"Then did the ministers not obey?" asks _Mynheer_.
+
+"Many did.  But some counted the surplice a return towards Popery, and
+utterly refused to wear it.  I mind [remember] there was a burying at
+that time at Saint _Giles'_ Church in _London_, without [outside]
+_Cripplegate_, where were six clerks that ware the white surplice: and
+Master _Crowley_, the Vicar, stood in the church door to withstand their
+entering, saying that no such superstitious rags of _Rome_ should come
+into his church.  There should have been a bitter tumult there, had not
+the clerks had the wit to give way and tarry withoutside the door.  And
+about the same time, a _Scots_ minister did preach in _London_ right
+vehemently against the order taken for the apparel of ministers.  Why,
+at Saint _Mildred's_ in _Bread_ Street, where a minister that had
+conformed was brought of the worshipful of that parish for the communion
+service, he was so withstood by the minister of the church and his
+adherents, that the Deputy of the Ward and other were fain to stand
+beside him in the chancel to defend him during the service, or the
+parson and his side should have plucked him down with violence.  And at
+long last," saith _Father_, laughing, "the _Scots_ minister that had so
+inveighed against them was brought to conform; but no sooner did he show
+himself in the pulpit of Saint _Margaret Pattens_ in a surplice, than
+divers wives rose up and pulled him forth of the pulpit, tearing his
+surplice and scratting his face right willingly."
+
+"Eh, good lack!" cries _Mynheer_.  "Your women, they keep silence in the
+churches after such a manner?"
+
+"There was not much silence that morrow, I warrant," quoth _Hal_,
+laughing right merrily.
+
+"Eh, my gentlemen, I pray you of pardon," saith Cousin _Bess_, looking
+up earnestly from her flannel, "but had I been in yon church I'd have
+done the like thing.  I'd none have scrat his face, but I'd have rent a
+good tear in that surplice."
+
+"Thou didst not so, _Bess_, the last _Sunday_ morrow," quoth _Father_,
+laughing as he turned to look at her.
+
+"Nay, 'tis all done and settled by now," saith she.  "I should but get
+took up for brawling.  But I warrant you, that flying white thing
+sticketh sore in my throat, and ever did.  An' I had my way, no parson
+should minister but in his common coat."
+
+"But that were unseemly and undecent, _Bess_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Nay, Mistress _Joyce_, but methinks 'tis a deal decenter," answers she.
+"Wherefore, if a man can speak to me of earthly things in a black gown,
+must he needs don a white when he cometh to speak to me of heavenly
+things?  There is no wit in such stuff."
+
+"See you, _Mynheer_," saith _Father_, again laughing, "even here in
+_Selwick_ Hall, where I trust we be little given to quarrel, yet the
+clocks keep not all one time."
+
+"Eh!  No!" saith _Mynheer_, shrugging of his shoulders and smiling.
+"The gentlewomen, they be very determined in their own opinions."
+
+"Well, I own, I like to see things decent," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "I
+desire not to have back the Popish albs and such like superstitious
+gauds--not I: but I do like to see a parson in a clean white surplice,
+and I would be right sorry were it laid aside."
+
+Cousin _Bess_ said nought, but wagged her head, and tare her flannel in
+twain.
+
+"Now, I dare be bound, _Bess_, thou countest me gone half-way back to
+_Rome_," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"That were nigh the _Via Mala_," quoth _Father_.
+
+"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, I'll judge no man, nor no woman," makes answer
+Cousin _Bess_.  "The Lord looketh on the heart; and 'tis well for us He
+doth, for if we were judged by what other folk think of us, I reckon we
+should none of us come so well off.  But them white flying kites be rags
+of _Popery_, that _will_ I say,--yea, and stand to."
+
+"Which side be you, _Father_?" asks _Anstace_.
+
+"Well, my lass," saith he, "though I see not, mine own self, the Pope
+and all his Cardinals to lurk in the folds of Dr _Meade's_ white
+surplice, and I am bound to say his tall, portly figure carrieth it off
+rarely, yet I do right heartily respect _Bess_ her scruple, and desire
+to abstain from that which she counteth the beginnings of _evil_."
+
+"Now, I warrant you, _Bess_ shall reckon that, of carrying it off well,
+to be the lust of the eye," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "She's a bit of a
+_Mennonite_, is _Bess_."
+
+"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, pray you, give me not such an ill word!" saith
+Cousin _Bess_, reproachfully.  "I never cared for Mammon, not I.  I'd be
+thankful for a crust of bread and a cup of water, and say grace o'er him
+with _Amen_."
+
+We all laughed, and _Father_ saith--
+
+"Nay, _Bess_, thou takest _Joyce_ wrong.  In that of the _Mennonites_,
+she would say certain men of whom _Mynheer_ told us a few days gone,
+that should think all things pleasurable and easeful to be wrong."
+
+"Good lack, Mistress _Joyce_, but I'm none so bad as that!" saith
+_Bess_.  "I'm sure, when I make gruel for whoso it be, I leave no lumps
+in, nor let it burn neither."
+
+"No, dear heart, thou art only a _Mennonite_ to thyself, not to other
+folk," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Thou shouldst be right well content of a
+board for thy bed, but if any one of us had the blanket creased under
+our backs, it should cost thee thy night's rest.  I know thee, _Bess
+Wolvercot_."
+
+"Well, and I do dearly love to see folk comfortable," quoth she.  "As
+for me, what recketh?  I thank the Lord, my health is good enough; and a
+very fool were I to grumble at every bit of discomfort.  Why, only do
+think, Mistress _Joyce_, how much worser I might have been off!  Had I
+been born of that country I heard Master _Banaster_ a-telling of, where
+they never see the sun but of the summer, and dwell of huts full o'
+smoke, with ne'er a chimney--why, I never could see if my face were
+clean, nor my table rubbed bright.  Eh, but I wouldn't like that fashion
+of living!"
+
+"They have no tables in _Greenland_ for to rub, _Bess_," quoth _Hal_.
+
+"Nor o'er many clean faces, I take it," saith _Father_.
+
+"Ah! did you hear, Sir," saith _Mynheer_, "of Mynheer _Heningsen's_
+voyage to _Greenland_ the last year?"
+
+"I have not, _Mynheer_," saith _Father_.  "Pray you, what was notable
+therein?"
+
+"Ah! he was not far from the coast of _Greenland_, when he found the
+ship go out of her course.  He turned the rudder, or how you say, to
+guide the ship--I am not sea-learned, I ask your pardon if I mistake--
+but the ship would not move.  Then they found, beneath a sunken rock,
+and it was--how you say?--magnetical, that drew to it the iron of the
+ship.  Then Mynheer _Heningsen_, he look to his charts, for he know no
+rock just there.  And what think you he found?  Why, two hundred years
+back, exactly--in the year of our Lord 1380, there were certain
+_Venetians_, the brothers _Zeni_, sailing in these seas, and they
+brought word home to _Venice_ that on this very spot, where _Heningsen_
+found nothing but a sunken rock, they found a beautiful large island,
+where were one hundred villages, inhabited by _Christian_ people, in a
+state of great civility [civilisation], but so simple and guileless that
+hardly you can conceive.  Think you! nothing now but a sunken rock."
+
+"But what name hath the island?" asks _Hal_.
+
+"No name at all.  No eyes ever saw it but the brothers _Zeni_ of
+_Venice_."
+
+"Nay, _Mynheer_, I cry you mercy," saith _Father_ of his thoughtful
+fashion.  "If the brothers _Zeni_ told truth (as I mean to signify no
+doubt), there was One that saw it, from the time when He pronounced all
+things very good, to the day when some convulsion of nature, whatso it
+were, by His commandment engulfed that fair isle in the waters.
+`Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He,--in heaven, and in earth, and
+in the sea, and in all deep places.'  Not one hair from the head of
+those unknown _Christians_, that were _Christians_ in truth, perished in
+those North waters.  We shall know it when we meet them in the Land that
+is very far off."
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE XXXI.
+Mine hand was so weary when I was come to the last sentence afore this,
+that I set down no more.  Truly, there was little at after that
+demerited the same.
+
+And now I be come to the end of my month, I have been a-reading over
+what I writ, to see how much I must needs pay.  There be but two blots,
+the which shall be so many pence: and two blank spaces of one week or
+over, the which at two pence each brings the account to sixpence.  I
+cannot perceive that I have at any time writ disrespectfully of my
+betters--which, I take it, be _Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_,
+and Cousin _Bess_, and Mynheer _Stuyvesant_, But for speaking unkindly
+of other, I fear I am not blameless.  I can count six two-pences, which
+shall be one shilling and sixpence.  I must try and do better when my
+month cometh round again.  Verily, I had not thought that I should speak
+unkindly six times in one month!  'Tis well to find out a body's faults.
+
+So now I pass my book over to _Milly_--and do right earnestly desire
+that she may be less faultful than I.  What poor infirm things be we, in
+very sooth!
+
+Note 1.  Francois Duke of Anjou, who visited the Queen in September,
+1579, to urge his suit.  Elizabeth hesitated for some time before she
+gave a decided negative.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER THREE.
+
+MILISENT MAKES A FRIEND.
+
+  "The inward depths of that deceitful fount
+  Where many a sin lies sleeping, but not dead."
+
+(_In Milisent's handwriting_.)
+
+                                        SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE FIRST.
+Things be alway going awry with me.  Elsewise, this jolly book should
+ne'er have come into my hands first of a _Sunday_.  I would love dearly
+to read o'er what my philosophical sister hath writ, and comment on the
+same: but I reckon I must tarry till to-morrow.
+
+Now, _Mother_ said I was to write what I thought, and I mean to do the
+same.  As to the pennies and the two-pences, they may count up
+themselves, for all I care.  They'll not outrun half-a-crown, I reckon:
+and having paid the same at my month end, I shall just worry the life
+out of _Father_ till he give me an other.  So here goes it!
+
+Well, the first thing I think is,--Why must everything pleasant be set
+aside while _Monday_?  _Father_ saith happiness and wickedness be not
+alike, though (quoth he) some folk think so much.  Now, it seems me that
+happiness and holiness should be the same thing.  Why should a matter
+not be right simply by reason that I like it?  I want to know, and I
+will ask somebody, some of these days.
+
+Howbeit, of one thing am I assured,--namely, that it cannot be wicked to
+write on _Sunday_ what it is not wicked to do.  So I shall tell what we
+did.
+
+Now, there some folk are so queer!  They will take down a gown, and
+shake out the folds, and talk an half-hour o'er it,--how this gimp
+should be better to run that way, and next week the bottom must needs be
+fresh bound: all of a _Sunday_.  But to stick a neeld in, and make the
+gimp run that way, and fresh bind the bottom,--good lack! they should
+count you a very heathen an' you asked them.  Now, I want to know how
+the one is a bit better than the other.  I cannot see a pin to choose
+betwixt them.
+
+Well! we gat out of bed this morrow--I reckon that is the first thing,
+beyond opening one's eyes.
+
+_Nell_ is alway the first up, and _Edith_ the last.  She is rare hard to
+wake, is _Edith_; or rather, not to wake, but to make her rise up when
+she is woke.  She takes a deal of shaking and talking to, some mornings
+specially.  _Nell_ does the talking, and I do the shaking: and I warrant
+you, I give it her.
+
+Howbeit, we were all up, at long last--and if one of us be late of a
+_Sunday_ morrow, _Father_ looks as if we had brake his heart.  Our
+_Sunday_ gowns at this season be of green satin, of sixteen shillings
+the yard,--eh, good lack! should I have set that down of a _Sunday_?
+Well, never mind; 'tis now done--and furred with pampilion [an unknown
+species of fur].  Our out-door hoods be black velvet: and in this gear
+went we to church, at _Keswick_.  And I would with all mine heart we had
+a church nearer unto us than three weary miles, though every body saith
+'tis mighty near.  _Father_ rid on _Favelle_, with _Edith_ behind him;
+and _Mother_ on _Garnet_, behind Master _Stuyvesant_; and _Nell_ and I
+on _Cowslip_; and Aunt _Joyce_ of her own hackney, that is called
+_Hermit_, with old _Matthias_.  Cousin _Bess_ come ambling after, on
+_Starlight_, with _Adam_ afore her: and behind trudged _Kate_ and
+_Kitling_.  And by the same token, _Moses_ came a-mewing to the door to
+see us depart.
+
+So came we to the church, and there found afore us my Lord _Dilston_ and
+his following, that had rowed over from _Lord's Island_, whereon of old
+time the Barons of _Dilston_ [the Radcliffes, subsequently created Earls
+of Derwentwater] have had an house (I am mindful of strangers the which
+shall read our chronicle, which is more, I reckon, than _Nell_ shall
+have been), and in good sooth, but Mistress _Jane_ is fair of face, and
+I do love to look upon her.  Well, of course, _Father_ being but a
+knight, we stood of one side to let pass a baron: and when all they were
+gone up, went up we, in due order, _Father_ handing _Mother_, and
+_Mynheer_ with Aunt _Joyce_, and then Cousin _Bess_ and we three maids.
+And there was Dr _Meade_ with his white rag of _Popery_ (as Cousin
+_Bess_ will have it) a-flying behind him as he came from the vestry: and
+I might not forbear to give a little pinch to _Edith_ as I saw it fly.
+'Tis to no good to pinch _Nell_, for she doth but kill me with a look.
+And there, of either side (which I had nigh forgot), stood the common
+folk, the townsfolk, and the lead-miners from _Vicar's Island_
+[anciently belonging to Fountains Abbey] and such like, all a-gaping and
+a-staring on us as we went by, to see the baron and the knight.  And eh,
+but I do love to be gaped on!  'Tis the best bit of all the _Sunday_,
+for me.
+
+(Now, _Mother_, you said I was to write what I thought.)
+
+Then come matins, which one has to sit through, of course: the only good
+matter being the chants.  I can sing out, and I do.  Then come the
+sermon, which is unto me sore weariness, and I gape through it as I best
+may.  Dear heart, what matter is it to me if _Peter_ were ever at _Rome_
+or no, or if Saint _James_ and _Paul_ do both say the same thing
+touching faith and works?  We have all faith--say we not the Creed every
+_Sunday_? and what would you have more?  And as to works, I hate good
+works.  Good works always means doing the very thing you would rather
+not.  'Tis good works to carry a pudding to old _Nanny Crewdson_ through
+a lane where I nigh lose my shoes in the mire, right at the time when I
+want to bide at home and play the virginals.  Or 'tis sitting of a chair
+and reading of _Luther's_ Commentary on the _Galatians_ to one of my
+betters, when my very toes be tingling to be out in the sunshine.  Good
+lack, but I do owe a pretty penny to Master Doctor _Luther_ for that
+commentary!  I have had to sit and read it a good score of times when it
+should have done me marvellous ease to have boxed his ears with it.  Had
+I been Mistress _Katherine_, it should have gone hard with me but I
+would have pulled Master Doctor out of his study, and made him lake with
+little _Jack_ and _Maudlin_, in the stead of toiling o'er yon old musty
+commentary.  _Nell_ saith she loveth to read it.  In good sooth, but I
+wish she may!
+
+Well! matins o'er, come the communion, for which all tarried but
+_Edith_; she, not being yet confirmed, is alway packed off ere it begin.
+And when that were o'er--and I do love the last _Amen_ of all--went all
+we to dinner with Mistress _Huthwaite_, at whose house we do ever dine
+of a _Sunday_: and mighty late it is of a communion _Sunday_; and I am
+well-nigh famished ere I break bread.  And for dinner was corned beef
+and carrots, and for drink sherris-sack and muscadel.  Then, at three o'
+the clock, all we again to church: and by the same token, if Dr _Meade_
+gave us not two full hours of a sermon, then will I sell my gold chain
+for two pence.  And at after church, in the porch were my Lord _Dilston_
+and fair Mistress _Jane_; and my Lord was pleased to take _Father_ by
+the hand, and _Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_ likewise; but did but kiss us
+maids.  [Note 1.]  But Mistress _Jane_ took us all three by the hand,
+and did say unto me that she would fain be better acquainted.  And in
+very deed, it should be a feather in my cap were I to come unto close
+friendship with my Lord _Dilston_ his daughter, as I do right heartily
+trust I may.  Nor, after all, were it any such great preferment for me,
+that am daughter unto Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_ of _Selwick_ Hall, Knight,
+which is cousin unto my right honourable Lord the Earl of _Oxenford_,
+and not so far off neither.  For my most honourable Lord, Sir _Aubrey de
+Vere_, sometime Earl of _Oxenford_, was great-great-great-grandfather
+unto my Lord that now is: and his sister, my Lady _Margaret_, wife to
+Sir _Nicholas Louvaine_, was great-great-grandmother unto _Father_: so
+they twain be cousins but four and an half times removed: and, good
+lack, what is this?  Surely, I need not to plume me upon Mistress _Jane
+Radcliffe_ her notice and favour.  If the _Radcliffes_ be an old house,
+as in very deed they be, so be the _Veres_ and the _Louvaines_ both: to
+say nought of the _Edens_, that have dwelt in _Kent-dale_ these thousand
+years at the least.  But one thing will I never own, and that is of
+Mynheer _Stuyvesant_, which shall say, and hold to it like a leech, that
+our family be all _Dutch_ folk.  He will have it that the _Louvaines_
+must needs have sprung from _Louvain_ in the Low Countries; but of all
+things doth he make me mad [angry: a word still used in the north of
+England] when he saith the great House of _Vere_ is _Dutch_ of origin.
+For he will have it a weir to catch fish, when all the world doth know
+that _Veritas_ is _Latin_ for truth, and _Vere_ cometh of that, or else
+of _vir_, as though it should say, one that is verily a man, and no base
+coward loon.  And 'tis all foolishness for to say, as doth _Mynheer_,
+that the old _Romans_ had no surnames like ours, but only the name of
+the family, such like as _Cornelius_ or _Julius_, which ran more akin
+unto our _Christian_ names.  I believe it not, and I won't.  Why, was
+there not an Emperor, or a Prince at the least, that was called _Lucius
+Verus_? and what is that but _Vere_?  'Tis as plain as the barber's
+pole, for all _Mynheer_, and that will I say.
+
+Howbeit, I am forgetting my business, and well-nigh that it is _Sunday_.
+So have back.  Church over, all we come home, in the very order as we
+went: and in the hall come _Moses_ a-purring to us, and a-rubbing of her
+head against _Nell_; and there was _Dan_ a-turning round and round after
+his tail, and _Nan_, that had a ball of paper, on her back a-laking
+therewith.  _So_ we to doff our hoods, and then down into the hall,
+where was supper served: for it was over late for four-hours [Note 2],
+and of a communion _Sunday_ we never get none.  Then _Nell_ to read a
+chapter from Master Doctor _Luther_ his magnifical commentary: and by
+the mass, I was glad it was not me.  Then--(Eh, happy woman be my dole!
+but if _Father_ shall see that last line, it shall be a broad shilling
+out of my pocket at the least.  He is most mighty nice, is _Father_,
+touching that make of talk.  I believe I catched it up of old
+_Matthias_.  I must in very deed essay to leave it off; and I do own,
+'tis not over seemly to swear of a _Sunday_, for I suppose it is
+swearing, though 'tis not profane talk.  Come, _Father_, you must
+o'erlook it this once: and I will never do so no more--at the least, not
+till the next time.)
+
+Well then, had we a chapter of _Luke_, and a long prayer of _Father_:
+and I am sore afeared I missed a good ten minutes thereof, for I wis not
+well what happed, nor how I gat there, but assuredly I was a-dancing
+with my Lord of _Oxenford_, and the Queen's Majesty and my Lord
+_Dilston_ a-looking on, and Mistress _Jane_ as black as thunder, because
+I danced better than she.  I reckon _Father's_ stopping woke me, and I
+said _Amen_ as well as any body.  Then the Hundredth Psalm, _Nell_
+a-playing on the virginals: and then (best of all) the blessing, and
+then with good-night all round, to bed.  I reckon my nap at prayers had
+made me something wakeful, for I heard both _Nell_ and _Edith_ asleep
+afore me.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE III.
+Now have I read o'er every line my philosophical sister hath writ: and
+very nigh smothered me o' laughing at divers parts.  The long discourses
+she putteth in, touching all manner of dreary matters!  I warrant, you
+shall not see me to deal with the Queen's Majesty's injunctions touching
+the apparel of parsons, nor with the _Dutch Mennonites_, nor with
+philosophical questions touching folks' thoughts and characters, nor no
+such rubbish.  I like sunlight, I do.  Catch me a-setting down Master
+_Stuyvesant_ his dreary speeches!  (I go not further, for then should it
+cost me sixpence: but Master _Stuyvesant_ hath no authority over me, so
+I may say what I will of him for two pence.)  But it seemeth me, for all
+her soberness and her killing looks, that Mistress _Helena_ is something
+diverted with my speeches, else had she not put so many in.  But I ought
+not to have said what I did, quotha, touching _Father's_ nose!  Ought I
+not, forsooth?  Mistress _Helena_, that shall cost you two pence, and I
+shall be fain to see the fine paid.
+
+(Eh, lack-a-day! but that shall cost me two pence!  Dear heart, whatever
+was _Father_ a-thinking of?  I shall be as clean ruined as the velvet
+doublet that _Ned_ dropped in the fish-pond!)
+
+It seemeth me _Father_ must have desired to make a good box for the
+poor.  I would it had not been at my cost.
+
+One thing is plain,--that Mistress _Nell_ keeps a conscience.  I scarce
+think I do.  There is a cushion full of pins somewhere down near my
+stomach, and now and then I get a prick: but I do but cry pish and turn
+the pin end into the cushion.  _Nell_, on the contrary, pulleth forth
+the pin and looketh on it, holding it in all lights.  But there was one
+time, I mind, that I did not cry pish, and methinks every pin in the
+cushion had set a-work to prick me hard.  'Twas ever so long gone, when
+_Wat_ and I dressed up the mop in a white sheet, and set it on the
+stairs for to make _Anstace_ and _Nell_ scream forth, a-taking it for a
+ghost: but as ill luck would have it, the first came by was _Mother_,
+with _Edith_ in her arms, that was then but a babe, and it so frighted
+her she went white as the very sheet, and dropped down of a dead faint,
+and what should have come of _Edith_ I wis not, had not _Anstace_, that
+came after, been quick to catch at her.  Eh, but in all my life never
+saw I _Father_ as he then were!  It was long time ere _Mother_ come to,
+and until after said he never a word, for he was all busied with her:
+but when she was come to herself and well at ease,--my word! but he did
+serve out _Wat_ and me!  _Wat_ gat the worst, by reason he was the
+elder, and had (said _Father_) played the serpent to mine _Eva_: but I
+warrant you I forgat not that birch rod for a week or twain.  Good lack!
+we never frighted nobody again.
+
+And after all, I do think _Father's_ talk was worser than the
+fustigation [whipping].  How he did insense it into us, that we might
+have been the death of our mother and sister both, and how it was rare
+wicked and cruel to seek to fright any, and had been known to turn
+folks' heads ere this!  You see, _Father_, I have not forgot it, and I
+reckon I never shall.
+
+But one thing _Father_ alway doth, and so belike do all in this house,
+which I hear not other folks' elders for to do.  When _Alice Lewthwaite_
+gets chidden, Mistress _Lewthwaite_ saith such matters be unseemly, or
+undutiful, and such like.  But _Father_, he must needs pull forth his
+Bible, and give you chapter and verse for every word he saith.  And it
+makes things look so much worser, some how.  'Tis like being judged of
+God instead of men.  And where Mistress _Lewthwaite_ talks of faults,
+_Father_ and _Mother_ say sins.  And it makes ever so much difference,
+to my thinking, whether a matter be but a fault you need be told of, or
+a sin that you must repent.  Then, Mistress _Lewthwaite_ (and I have
+noted it in other) always takes things as they touch her, whereas
+_Father_ and _Mother_ do look on them rather as they touch God.  And it
+doth seem ever so much more awfuller thus.  Methinks it should be a
+sight comfortabler world if men had no consciences, and could do as it
+listed them at all times without those pin-pricks.  I am well assured
+folks should mostly do right.  I should, at any rate.  'Tis but
+exceeding seldom I do aught wrong, and then mostly because I am teased
+with forbiddance of the same.  I should never have touched the
+fire-fork, when I was a little maid, and nigh got the house a-fire, had
+not old Dame _Conyers_, that was my godmother, bidden me not do the
+same.  Had she but held her peace, I should ne'er have thought thereon.
+Folks do not well to put matters into childre's heads, and then if aught
+go wrong the childre get the blame.  And in this world things be ever
+a-going wrong.  But wherefore must I be blamed for that, forsooth?  'Tis
+the things go wrong, not me.  I should be a very angel for goodness if
+only folks gave o'er a putting of me out, and gainsaying of me, and
+forbidding things to be done.  In good sooth, 'tis hard on a poor maid
+that cannot be suffered to be as good as she should, were she but let
+a-be.
+
+                                           SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE VI.
+Yesterday, the afternoon was so fair and sunshine, that _Edith_ and I
+(_Mother_ giving us leave) rowed o'er to Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, where
+_Edith_ sat her down of a great stone, and said she would draw the
+lake's picture in little.  So I, having no list to stand behind and look
+on, went off to see if I could find aught, such as a squirrel or a pie,
+to divert me withal.  As for _Adam_, which had rowed us o'er, he
+gathered up his nose and his heels all of a lump on the grass, and in
+five minutes he was snoring like an owl.  For me, I wandered on a while,
+and went all over the ruins of the hermitage, and could find nought to
+look at save one robin, that sat on a bough and stared at me.  After a
+while I sat me down, and I reckon I should have been a-snoring like
+_Adam_ afore long, but I heard a little bruit [noise] that caused me
+turn mine head, and all suddenly I was aware of a right goodly
+gentleman, and well clad, that leaned against a tree, and gazed upon me,
+yet with mighty respect and courtesy.  He was something past his youth,
+yet right comely to look to; of a fair hair and beard, and soft eyes,
+grey [blue] as the sky.  Truly, I was something fluttered, for he ware a
+brave velvet jerkin, and a gold chain as thick as Master _Mayor's_.  And
+while I meditated if I should speak unto him or no, he spake first.  "I
+pray you, fair my Mistress, or Madam [then restricted to noble ladies
+and knights' wives] if so be, of your good pleasure, to do a stranger to
+wit of the name of this charming isle?"
+
+"Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, Sir," quoth I.  "Of old time, as 'tis said,
+Saint _Hubert_ had an hermitage hereon: the ruins whereof you may see
+down yonder."
+
+"Truly, the isle is better accommodated at this present," saith he, and
+smiled one of the comeliest smiles ever saw I on a man's face.  "And who
+was Saint _Hubert_, if it please my fair damosel?"
+
+"In good sooth, Sir, that know I not," said I; "save that he were one of
+the old saints, now done away."
+
+"If the old saints be done away," saith he, "thank goodness, the new at
+least be left."
+
+Good lack! but I wist not what to answer to so courtly compliments, and
+the better liked I my neighbour every minute.  Methought I had never
+seen a gentleman so grand and amiable, not to say of so good words.
+
+"And, I pray you, sweet Mistress," saith he, yet a-leaning against the
+tree, which was an oak, and I could find it again this minute: "is it
+lawful for the snared bird to request the name of the fowler?"
+
+"Sir, I pray you of pardon," I made answer, and I could not help to
+laugh a little, "but I am all unused to so courtly and flattering words.
+May it please you to put what you would say into something plainer
+_English_?"
+
+"Surely," saith he, "the rose is not unaccustomed to the delightsome
+inhalation of her fragrance.  Well, fairest Mistress, may I know your
+name?  Is that _English_ plain enough to do you a pleasure?"
+
+"Sir," quoth I, "my name is _Milisent Louvaine_, to serve you."
+
+"Truly," saith he, "and it shall serve me right well to know so
+mellifluous a name.  [Note 3.]  And what dwelling is honoured by being
+your fair home, my honey-sweet damsel?"
+
+"Sir," said I, "I dwell at _Selwick_ Hall, o'er the lake in yonder
+quarter."
+
+"It must be a delightsome dwelling," he made answer.  "And--elders have
+you, fairest Mistress?"
+
+"I thank the Lord, ay, Sir.  Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_ is my father, and
+Dame _Lettice_, sometime named _Eden_, my mother."
+
+"_Lettice Eden_!" saith he, and methought something sorrowfully, as
+though _Mother's_ old name should have waked some regrets within him.
+"I do mind me, long time gone, of a fair maiden of that name, that was
+with my sometime Lady of _Surrey_, and might now and then be seen at the
+Court with her lady, or with the fair Lady of _Richmond_, her lord's
+sister.  Could it have been the same, I marvel?"
+
+"Sir," said I, "I cast no doubt thereon.  My mother was bower-maiden
+unto my Lady of _Surrey_, afore she were wed."
+
+"Ah!" saith he, and fetched a great sigh.  "She was the fairest maiden
+that ever mine eyes beheld.  At the least--I thought so yesterday."
+
+"My sister is more like her than I," I did observe.  "She is round by
+yonder, a-playing the painter."
+
+"Ah," quoth he, something carelessly, "I did see a young damsel, sitting
+of a stone o'er yonder.  Very fair, in good sooth: yet I have seen
+fairer,--even within the compass of Saint _Hubert's_ Isle.  And I do
+marvel that she should be regarded as favouring my good Lady your mother
+more than you, sweet Mistress _Milisent_."
+
+I was astonished, for I know _Edith_ is reckoned best-favoured of all
+us, and most like to _Mother_.  But well as it liked me to sit and
+listen, methought, somehow, I had better get me up and return to
+_Edith_.
+
+"Alas!" saith he, when he saw me rise, "miserable man, am I driving
+hence the fairest floweret of the isle?"
+
+"Not in no wise, Sir," answered I; "but I count it time to return, and
+my sister shall be coming to look for me."
+
+"Then, sweet Mistress, give me leave to hand you o'er these rough
+paths."
+
+So I put mine hand into his, which was shapely, and well cased in fair
+_Spanish_ leather; and as we walked, he asked me of divers matters; as,
+how many brothers I had, and if they dwelt at home; and if _Father_ were
+at home; and the number and names of my sisters, and such like; all
+which I told him.  Moreover, he would know if we had any guests; which,
+with much more, seeing he had been of old time acquainted with _Mother_,
+I told.  Only I forgat to make mention of Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+So at long last--for he, being unacquainted with the Isle, took the
+longest way round, and I thought it good manners not to check him--at
+long last come we to _Edith_, which was gat up from her stone, and was
+putting by her paper and pencils in the bag which she had brought for
+them.
+
+"We shall be something late for four-hours, _Milly_," saith she.
+"Prithee, wake _Adam_, whilst I make an end."
+
+Off went I and gave _Adam_ a good shake, and coming back, found _Edith_
+in discourse with my gentleman.  I cannot tell why, but I would as lief
+he had not conversed with any but me.
+
+"Sir," said I, "may we set you down of the lakeside?"
+
+"No, I thank you much," saith he: and lifting his bonnet from his head,
+I saw how gleaming golden was yet his hair.  "I have a boat o'er the
+other side.  Farewell, my sweet mistresses both: I trust we shall meet
+again.  Methinks I owe it you, howbeit, to tell you my name.  I am Sir
+_Edwin Tregarvon_, of _Cornwall_, and very much your servant."
+
+So away went he, with a graceful mien: and we home o'er the lake.  All
+the way _Edith_ saith nought but--"_Milly_, where didst thou pick up thy
+_cavaliero_?"
+
+"Nay," said I, "he it was who picked me up.  He was leaning of a tree,
+of t'other side, over against _Borrowdale_: and I sat me down of a log,
+and saw him not till he spake."
+
+_Edith_ said no more at that time.  But in the even, when we were
+doffing us, and _Nell_ was not yet come up, quoth she--
+
+"_Milly_, is Sir _Edwin_ something free to ask questions?"
+
+"Oh, meterly," [tolerably] said I.
+
+"I trust thou gavest him not o'er full answers."
+
+"Oh, nought of import," said I.  "Beside, _Edith_, he is an old friend
+of _Mother_."
+
+"Is he so?" quoth she.  "Then we can ask _Mother_ touching him."
+
+Now, I could not have told any wherefore, but I had no list to ask
+_Mother_, nor had I told her so much as one word touching him.  I
+believe I was half afeared she might forbid me to encourage him in talk.
+I trust _Edith_ shall forget the same, for she hath not an over good
+memory.
+
+                                           SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE IX.
+I well-nigh do wish I had not writ down that same o' _Friday_ last.
+Howbeit, there is no penalty against tearing out o' leaves: and that
+must I do, if need be.  Meanwhile, I will go right forward with my
+chronicling.
+
+I did verily think I saw Sir _Edwin_ part-way up the hill behind us o'
+_Saturday_ even: but o' _Sunday_ he was not in church, for I looked for
+him.  I reckon he must have left this vicinage, or he should scarce run
+the risk of a twenty pound fine [the penalty per month for
+non-attendance at the parish church], without he be fairly a-rolling in
+riches, as his gold chain looked not unlike.
+
+Thank goodness, _Edith_ hath forgot to say aught to _Mother_, and 'tis
+not like she shall think on now.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XII.
+_Mother_ bid me, this morrow, carry a basket of eggs and a spice-cake
+[the northern name for a plum-cake] to old _Jack_.  They were ducks'
+eggs, for I had told her what _Jack_ said the last time we visited him.
+I bade _Edith_ go with me [Note 4], but she would not, the day being
+somewhat foul.  I did never see a maid so unwilling to mire her shoes as
+our _Edith_.  So I all alone up to _Jack Benn's_: which saw me from his
+hut door, and gave me his customary courteous welcome.
+
+"There's a woman a-coming!" quoth he.  "Get away wi' ye!  I hate women."
+
+"Nay, _Jack_," said I; "thou alway savest me, as thou wist.  Here be
+eggs for thee--ducks', every one: and a spice-cake, which I know thou
+lovest."
+
+"I love nought so much as I hate women," saith he.  But he took the cake
+and the eggs off me, notwithstanding.  "They're fleshly folk, is women,"
+quoth old _Jack_.
+
+"Nay, what signifiest?" said I.  "Women have no more flesh than men, I
+reckon."
+
+"Mistress _Milisent_, does thou wit what _Paul_ says to th' _Romans_,
+touching th' flesh and th' spirit?"
+
+"Oh ay, _Jack_, I have read it afore now."
+
+"Well, and does thou mind how he threaps again' th' flesh?"
+
+"To be sure," said I.
+
+"Now look ye here," saith he.  "Here's my hand,"--and he reacheth forth
+a great brown paw.  "Does thou see it?"
+
+"Ay, I am thankful I have eyes good enough for that, _Jack_!"
+
+"Well--this hand's made o' flesh, does thou wit?"
+
+"I reckon so much, _Jack_."
+
+"Good.  Well, _Paul_ he says we're none to mind th' things o' th' flesh,
+but only th' things o' th' spirit.  Your spirit's your thoughts and
+meditations like.  And that's why women's such ill uns--because they are
+alway minding th' things o' th' flesh: scrubbing, and washing, and
+baking, and sewing, and such like.  And it stands to reason, Mistress
+_Milisent_, that what ye do wi' th' flesh mun be th' things o' th'
+flesh.  Does thou see?"
+
+"Well, _Jack_, I am afeared I do not entirely."
+
+"Get thee gone!" saith he.  "Women never can see nought.  They're ill
+uns, I tell ye--they're ill uns!"
+
+"But, _Jack_, the sins of the flesh have nought to do with cooking and
+washing."
+
+"Does thou think I dunna know better nor a woman?  Thee be off, or I'll
+let fly th' broom at thee."
+
+"_Jack_, thou art a very uncivil companion," said I; but I gathered up
+my gown for to go.
+
+"I never were civil to a woman yet," saith he, "and I hope I never shall
+be.  That's a sin I'll none have to answer for."
+
+"In very deed it is, _Jack_," said I, "and I will bear witness for thee
+to that end if need be.  Farewell."
+
+So away turned I from the grim old man, but had not run many steps down
+ere I was aware of an hand, very different from _Jack's_, held forth to
+me, and a voice saluting me in exceeding diverse language.
+
+"Fairest Mistress _Milisent_, well met this cloudy morrow!  I see the
+flowers be out, though the sun shine not.  Give me leave, I pray you, to
+aid your graceful steps down this rough hill-side."
+
+So down the hill with me came Sir _Edwin_, and mighty pleasant discourse
+had we--all the fairer for coming after _Jack_.  And much he told me of
+his estate in _Cornwall_, where he hath a fair castle, built of old
+time, and mines like to ours, saving they be tin, not lead.  And these
+_Cornish_ mines, as he told me, were worked of old time by the _Jews_:
+but when I did demand of him how _Jews_ should come to work them, that
+(quoth he) could he not say.  And at times, in these mines, deep down in
+the old workings, do they hear the ghosts of them that worked them a
+thousand years ago, a-knocking with the pickaxe; and when they do break
+into the ancient workings, they come on the olden pickaxes of stags'
+horn, used of these old _Jews_ and _Romans_, that did labour in these
+mines of old time.
+
+"Good lack!" cried I: "and be these the very pickaxes used of these
+ghosts?  Verily, I would be feared for to touch them."
+
+"Nay, the tools themselves be no ghosts," saith he, laughing: "and I do
+ensure you, fair my mistress, I have seen and handled divers thereof."
+
+Then he told me, moreover, of a new custom is risen up in the Queen's
+Majesty's Court: for right courtly discourse he hath, and the names of
+dukes and earls do fly about in his talk as though he were hand and
+glove with every man of them.  I do love to hear such discourse, and
+that right dearly.  Many a time have I essayed for to win _Mother_ to
+enter into talk touching those days when she dwelt in _Surrey_ Place
+with my good Lady Countess of _Surrey_: but I wis not well wherefore,
+she ever seemeth to have no list to talk of that time.  She will tell us
+of her 'prisonment in the _Counter_, and how _Father_ brought the little
+shell for to comfort her, and at after how he fetched her out, and rode
+away with her and had a care of her, when as she was let forth: but even
+in that there seems me like as there should be a gap, which she never
+filleth up.  I marvel if there were somewhat of that time the which she
+would not we should know.  [Note 5.]  I did once whisper a word of this
+make unto _Nell_: but Mistress _Helena_, that doth alway the right and
+meet thing, did seem so mighty shocked that I should desire to ferret
+forth somewhat that _Mother_ had no list for me to know, that I let her
+a-be.  But for all that would I dearly love to know it.  I do take
+delight in digging up of other folks' secrets, as much as in keeping of
+mine own.
+
+Howbeit, here am I a great way off from Sir _Edwin_ and his discourse of
+the new Court custom, the which hath name _Euphuism_, and is a right
+fair conceit, whereby divers gentlemen and gentlewomen do swear
+friendship unto one the other, by divers quaint names the which they do
+confer.  Thus the Queen's Majesty herself is pleased to honour some of
+her servants, as my Lord of _Burleigh_, who is her _Spirit_, and Sir
+_Walter Raleigh_ her _Water_, and Mr Vice-Chamberlain [Sir Christopher
+Hatton] her _Sheep_, and Mr Secretary [Sir Francis Walsingham] her
+_Moon_.  Sir _Edwin_ saith he had himself such a friendship with some
+mighty great lady, whose name he would not utter, (though I did my best
+to provoke him thereto) he calling her his _Discretion_, and she naming
+him her _Fortitude_.  Which is pleasant and witty matter.  [Note 6.]
+
+"And," quoth Sir _Edwin_, "mine honey-sweet Mistress, if it may stand
+with your pleasure, let us two follow the Court fashion.  You shall be
+mine _Amiability_, [loveliness, not loveableness], and (if it shall
+please you) shall call me your _Protection_.  Have I well said, my
+fairest?"
+
+"Indeed, Sir, and I thank you," I made answer, "and should you do me so
+much honour, it should like me right well."
+
+By this time we were come to the turn nigh the garden gate, and I dared
+not be seen with Sir _Edwin_ no nearer the house.  The which he seemed
+to guess, and would there take his leave: demanding of me which road led
+the shortest way to _Kirkstone_ Pass.  So I home, and into our chamber
+to doff my raiment, where, as ill luck would have it, was _Nell_.  Now,
+our chamber window is the only one in all the house whence the path to
+_Jack's_ hut can be seen: wherefore I reckoned me fairly safe.  But how
+did mine heart jump into my mouth when _Nell_ saith, as I was a-folding
+of my kerchief--
+
+"Who was that with thee, _Milly_?"
+
+Well, I do hope it was not wicked that I should answer,--"A gentleman,
+_Nell_, that would know his shortest way to _Kirkstone_ Pass."  In good
+sooth, it was a right true answer: for Sir _Edwin_ is a gentleman, and
+he did ask me which were the shortest way thereto.  But, good lack! it
+seemed me as all the pins that ever were in a cushion started o'
+pricking me when I thus spake.  Yet what ill had I done, forsooth?  I
+had said no falsehood: only shut _Nell's_ mouth, for she asked no
+further.  And, dear heart, may I not make so much as a friend to divert
+me withal, but I must send round the town-crier to proclaim the same?
+After I had writ thus much, down come I to the great chamber, where I
+found _Anstace_ and _Hal_ come; and _Hal_, with _Father_ and _Mynheer_,
+were fallen of mighty grave discourse touching the news of late come,
+that the Pope hath pretended to deprive the Queen's Majesty of all right
+to _Ireland_.  Well-a-day! as though Her Majesty should think to let go
+_Ireland_ or any other land because a foreign bishop should bid her!
+Methinks this companion the Pope must needs be clean wood [mad].
+
+_Hal_, moreover, is well pleased that the Common Council of _London_
+should forbid all plays in the City, the which, as he will have it, be
+ill and foolish matter.  Truly, it maketh little matter to me here in
+_Derwent_ dale: but methinks, if I dwelt in _London_ town, I should be
+but little pleased therewith.  Why should folk not divert them?
+
+Being aweary of Master _Hal's_ grave discourse, went I over to
+_Anstace_, whom I found mighty busied of more lighter matter,--to wit,
+the sumptuary laws of late set forth against long cloaks and wide ruffs,
+which do ill please her, for _Anstace_ loveth to ruffle it of a good
+ruff.  Thence gat she to their _Cicely_, which is but ill at ease, and
+Dr _Bell_ was fetched to her this last even: who saith that on _Friday_
+and _Saturday_ the sign [of the Zodiac] shall be in the heart, and from
+_Sunday_ to _Tuesday_ in the stomach, during which time it shall be no
+safe dealing with physic preservative, whereof he reckoneth her need to
+be: so she must needs tarry until _Wednesday_ come seven-night, and from
+that time to fifteen days forward shall be passing good.
+
+Howbeit, we gat back ere long to the fashions, whereof _Anstace_ had of
+late a parcel of news from her husband's sister, Mistress _Parker_, that
+dwelleth but fifty miles from _London_, and is an useful sister for to
+have.  As to the newest fashion of sleeves (quoth she), nothing is more
+certain than the uncertainty; and likewise of hoods.  Cypress, saith
+she, is out of fashion (the which hath put me right out of conceit with
+my cypress kirtle that was made but last year), and napped taffeta is
+now thought but serving-man-like.  All this, and a deal more, _Anstace_
+told us, as we sat in the compassed window [bay window].
+
+Dr _Meade's_ hour-glass is broke of the sexton.  I am fain to hear the
+same, if it shall cut his sermons shorter.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Note 1.  At this time, shaking hands indicated warmer cordiality than
+the kiss, which last was the common form of greeting amongst all
+classes.
+
+Note 2.  Four-hours answered to afternoon tea, and was usually served,
+as its name denotes, at four o'clock.
+
+Note 3.  Millicent has really no connection with Melissa, though many
+persons have supposed so.  It comes, through Milisent and Melisende,
+from the Gothic _Amala-suinde_, which signifies Heavenly wisdom.
+
+Note 4.  Bade is the imperfect, and bidden the participle, of bid, to
+invite, as well as of bid, to command.
+
+Note 5.  The reader who wishes for more light on this point than was
+allowed to Milisent, will find it in "Lettice Eden."
+
+Note 6.  At this time "pleasant" meant humorous, and "witty" meant
+intellectual.  This curious child's play termed Euphuism, to which grave
+men and sedate women did not hesitate to lower themselves, was peculiar
+to the age of Elizabeth, than whom never was a human creature at once so
+great and so small.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER FOUR.
+
+IN BY-PATH MEADOW.
+
+  "I thought that I was strong, Lord,
+      And did not need Thine arm;
+  Though dangers thronged around me,
+      My heart felt no alarm:
+  I thought I nothing needed--
+      Riches, nor dress, nor sight:
+  And on I walked in darkness,
+      And still I thought it light."
+
+                                           SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XV.
+I have but now read o'er what I writ these last few days, and have
+meditated much whether I should go on to tell of Sir _Edwin_, for it
+shall ne'er serve to have folk read the same.  And methinketh it best
+for to go straight on, and at the end, if need be, tear out the leaves.
+For it doth me a mighty pleasure to write and think upon the same: and I
+can make some excuse when I come to it.
+
+  Though Mistress _Nell_,
+  I guess right well,
+      Of neatness should be heedful:
+  Yet I will tear
+  The leaves out fair,
+      If it shall so be needful.
+
+There! who saith I cannot write poesy?
+
+This morrow again (I being but just without the garden gate), I met with
+my _Protection_, who doffed his plumed bonnet and saluted me as his most
+fair _Amiability_.  I do see him most days, though but for a minute: and
+in truth I think long from one time to another.  Coming back, I
+meditated what I should say to Mistress _Nell_ (that loveth somewhat too
+much to meddle) should she have caught sight of him: for it shall not
+serve every time to send him to _Kirkstone_.  Nor, of course, could I
+think to tell a lie thereabout.  So I called to mind that he had once
+asked me what name we called the eye-bright in these parts, though it
+were not this morrow, but I should not need to say that, and it should
+be no lie, seeing he did say so much.  Metrusteth the cushion should not
+prick me for that, and right sure am I there should be no need.
+
+                                         SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XVII.
+Truly, as saith the old saw, 'tis best not to halloo till thou be out of
+the wood.  This very afternoon, what should _Edith_ say, without one
+word of warning, as we were sat a-sewing, but--
+
+"_Mother_, do you mind a gentleman, by name _Tregarvon_?"
+
+"What name saidst, _Edith_?" asks _Mother_.
+
+"_Tregarvon_," quoth she.  "Sir _Edwin Tregarvon_, of _Cornwall_."
+
+"Nay, I never knew no gentleman of that name," saith _Mother_.  "Where
+heardst of him, child?"
+
+"'Twas when we went o'er to Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, _Mother_," she made
+answer,--"what day were it, _Milly_?--about ten days gone--"
+
+"Aye, I mind it," saith _Mother_.
+
+"Well, while I sat of the rock a-drawing, come up a gentleman to me,"
+saith she, "and asked at me if _Louvaine_ were not my name.  (Why, then,
+he knew us! thought I.)  I said `Aye,' and he went on to ask me if
+_Father_ were at home, for he had list to have speech of him: and he
+said he knew you, _Mother_, of old time, when you were Mistress
+_Lettice_.  I told him _Father_ was at home, and he desired to know what
+time should be the best to find him: when I told him the early morrow,
+for he was oft away in the afternoon.  And then--"
+
+"Well, my lass?" saith _Mother_, for _Edith_ was at a point.
+
+"Well, _Mother_, methinks I had better tell you," saith she, a-looking
+up, "for I cannot be easy till I have so done, and I wis well you will
+not lay to my charge a thing that was no blame of mine.  So--then he
+'gan to speak of a fashion that little liked me, and I am assured should
+have liked you no better: commending my drawing, and mine hair, and mine
+eyes, and all such matter as that: till at the last I said unto him,
+`Sir, I pray you of pardon, but I am not used to such like talk, and in
+truth I know not what to answer.  If your aim be to find favour with me,
+you were best hold your peace from such words.'  For, see you, _Mother_,
+I thought he might have some petition unto _Father_, and might take a
+fantasy that I could win _Father_ to grant him, and so would the rather
+if he talked such matter as should flatter my foolish vanity.  As though
+_Father_ should be one to be swayed by such a fantasy as that!  But
+then, of course, he did not know _Father_.  I trust I did not aught to
+your displeasance, _Mother_?"
+
+"So far as I can judge, dear child, thou didst very well," saith
+_Mother_: "and I am right glad thou wert thus discreet for thy years.
+But what said he in answer?"
+
+"Oh, he tarried not after that," quoth she: "he did only mutter somewhat
+that methought should be to ask pardon, and then went off in another
+minute."
+
+_Mother_ laid down her work with a glow in her eyes.
+
+"O _Edith_!" saith she: "I am so thankful thou art not,"--but all
+suddenly she shut up tight, and the glow went out of her _eyes_ and into
+her cheeks.  I never know what that signifieth: and I have seen it to
+hap aforetime.  But she took up her sewing again, and said no more, till
+she saith all at once right the thing which I desired her not to say.
+
+"Did this gentleman speak with thee, _Milly_?"
+
+I made my voice as cool and heedless as I could.
+
+"Well, _Mother_, I reckon it was the same that I saw leaning against a
+tree at the other side of the isle, which spake to me and asked me what
+the isle was called, and who Saint _Hubert_ were.  He told me, the same
+as _Edith_, that he had known you aforetime."
+
+"Didst get a poem unto thy sweet eyes, _Milly_?" saith _Edith_,
+laughing.
+
+"Nay," said I, "mine eyes be not so sweet as thine."
+
+"Did he ask at thee if _Father_ were at home?"
+
+"Ay, he asked that."
+
+Herein told I no falsehood, for that day he said not a word touching
+mine eyes.
+
+Then Cousin _Bess_ looks up.  Cousin _Bess_ was by, but not Aunt
+_Joyce_.
+
+"What manner of man, my lasses?" saith she.
+
+I left _Edith_ to make answer.
+
+"Why," saith she, "I reckon he might be ten years younger than _Father_,
+or may-be more: and--"
+
+"Oh, not a young man, then?" saith _Mother_, as though she were fain it
+so were.
+
+"Oh, nay," quoth _Edith_: "but well-favoured, and of a fair hair and
+beard."
+
+"And clad of a dark green velvet jerkin," saith Cousin _Bess_, "and
+tawny hose, with a rare white feather in 's velvet bonnet?"
+
+"That is he," saith _Edith_.
+
+"Good lack, then!"
+
+Cousin _Bess_ makes answer, "but he up to me only yester-morrow on the
+_Keswick_ road, as I come back from _Isaac's_.  My word, but he doth
+desire for to see Sir _Aubrey_ some, for he asked at us all three if he
+were at home."
+
+"Was he a man thou shouldest feel to trust, _Bess_?" asks _Mother_.
+
+"Trust!" saith she.  "I'd none trust yon dandified companion, not for to
+sell a sucking-pig."
+
+Dear heart, but what queer things doth she say at times!  I would Cousin
+_Bess_ were somewhat more civiler.  To think of a gentleman such as he
+is, a-selling of pigs!  Yet I must say I was not o'er well pleased to
+hear of his complimenting of _Edith_: though, 'tis true, that was ere he
+had seen me.
+
+"What like is he, _Bess_?" saith _Mother_.  "I would know the thought he
+gave to thee."
+
+"Marry, the first were that he was like to have no wife, or she should
+have amended a corner of his rare slashed sleeve, that was ravelling
+forth o' the stitching," saith she.  "And the second were, that he were
+like the folk in this vicinage, with his golden hair and grey eyen.  And
+the third, that he were not, for that his speech was not of these parts.
+And the fourth, that his satin slashed sleeves and his silver buckles
+of his shoes must have cost him a pretty penny.  And the last, that I'd
+be fain to see the back of him."
+
+"Any more betwixt, _Cousin_?" saith _Edith_, laughing.
+
+"Eh, there was a cart-load betwixt," saith she.  "I mattered him nought,
+I warrant you."
+
+"Well, neither did I, o'er much," saith _Edith_.
+
+Dear heart, thought I, but where were their eyes, both twain, that they
+saw not the lovesomeness and gentilesse of that my gallant _Protection_?
+But as for Cousin _Bess_, she never had no high fantasies.  All her
+likings be what the _French_ call _bourgeois_.  But I was something
+surprised that _Edith_ should make no count of him.  I marvel if she
+meant the same.
+
+"Well, there must needs be some blunder," saith _Mother_, when we had
+sat silent a while: "for I never knew no man of that name, nor no
+gentleman of _Cornwall_, to boot."
+
+"May-be he minds you, _Mother_, though you knew not him," quoth _Edith_.
+
+"Soothly," saith she, "there were knights in the Court, whose names I
+knew not: but if they saw me so much as thrice, methinks that were all--
+and never spake word unto me."
+
+"See you now, Cousin _Lettice_," saith _Bess_, "if this man wanted
+somewhat of you, he'd be fain enough to make out that he had known you
+any way he might."
+
+"Ay, very like," saith _Mother_.
+
+"And if he come up to the door, like an honest companion, and desire
+speech of Sir _Aubrey_, well, he may be a decent man, for all his
+slashed sleeves and flying feathers: but if not so, then I write him
+down no better than he should be, though what he is after it passeth my
+wit to see."
+
+"I do believe," quoth _Edith_, a-laughing, "that Cousin _Bess_ hates
+every thing that flies.  What with Dr _Meade's_ surplice, and Sir
+_Edwin's_ long feather--verily, I would marvel what shall come a-flying
+next."
+
+"Nay, my lass, I love the song-birds as well as any," saith Cousin
+_Bess_: "'tis only I am not compatient with matter flying that is not
+meant to fly.  If God Almighty had meant men and women to fly, He'd have
+put wings on them.  And I never can see why men should deck themselves
+out o' birds' feathers, without they be poor savages that take coloured
+beads to be worth so much as gold angels.  And as for yon surplice, 'tis
+a rag o' _Popery_--that's what it is: and I'd as lief tell Dr _Meade_
+so as an other man.  I did tell Mistress _Meade_ so, t' other day: but,
+poor soul! she could not see it a whit.  'Twas but a decent garment that
+the priest must needs bear, and such like.  And `Mistress _Meade_,' says
+I, `I'll tell you what it is,' says I: `you are none grounded well in
+_Hebrews_,' says I.  `Either Dr _Meade's_ no priest, or else the Lord
+isn't,' says I: `so you may pick and choose,' says I.  Eh dear! but she
+looked on me as if I'd spake some ill words o' the Queen's Majesty--not
+a bit less.  And `Mistress _Wolvercot_,' says she, `what ever do you
+mean?' says she.  `Well, Mistress _Meade_,' says I, `that's what I
+mean--that there can be no _Christian_ priests so long as _Christ_ our
+Lord is alive: so if Dr _Meade's_ a priest, He must be dead.  And if
+so,' says I, `why then, I don't see how there can be no _Christians_ of
+no sort, priests or no,' says I.  `Why, Mistress _Wolvercot_!' says she,
+`you must have lost your wits.'  `Well,' says I, `some folks has: but I
+don't rightly think I'm one,'--and so home I came."
+
+_Edith_ was rarely taken, and laughed merrily.  For me, I was so glad to
+see the talk win round to Mistress _Meade_, that I was fain to join.
+
+"Thou art right, _Bess_," saith _Mother_.
+
+"Why," saith she, "I'm with _Paul_: and he's good company enough for me,
+though may-be, being but a tent-maker by trade, he'd scarce be meet for
+Dr _Meade_.  I thought we'd done with bishops and priests and such
+like, I can tell you, when the Church were reformed: but, eh dear!
+they're a coming up again every bit as bad as them aforetime.  I cannot
+see why they kept no bishops.  Lawn sleeves, forsooth! and rochets! and
+cassocks! and them square caps,--they're uncommon like the Beast!  I
+make no count of 'em."
+
+"And rochets can fly!" cries _Edith_ merrily.
+
+"Why, Cousin _Bess_," said I, "you shall be a _Brownist_ in a week or
+twain."
+
+"Nay, I'll be ruled by the law: but I reckon I may call out if it
+pinches," saith she.
+
+So, with mirth, we ended the matter: and thankful was I when the talk
+were o'er.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XIX.
+I do keep my book right needfully locked up, for I would not for all the
+world that _Nell_ nor _Edith_ should read this last fortnight.  Yester
+even, just as it grew to dusk, met I with my _Protection_ outside the
+garden door, that would fain win me to meet with him some whither on the
+hills, where (said he) we might talk more freely.  But so feared was I
+to vex _Father_ and _Mother_ that this I did deny, though I could see it
+vexed him, and it went to mine heart to do thus.  And he asked at me if
+I loved him not, and did very hard press me to say that I would love
+him: for he saith he loveth me better than all the world.  Yet that
+would I not fully grant him, but plagued him a bit thereon.  'Tis rare
+fun plaguing a man.  But methought I would try this even if I could not
+wring a fashion of consent out of _Father_, without his knowing the
+same: so when none was there but he and I and _Moses_, quoth I--
+
+"_Father_, is it ever wrong to love any?"
+
+"`Love is of God,'" he made answer.  "Surely no."
+
+And therewith should I have been content, and flattered me that I had
+_Father's_ assent to the loving of my _Protection_: but as ill luck
+would have it, he, that was going forth of the chamber, tarried, with
+the door in his hand, to say--
+
+"But mind that it be very love, my maid.  That is not love, but unlove,
+which will help a friend to break God's commandments."
+
+I had liefer he had let that last alone.  It sticketh in my throat
+somewhat.  Yet have I _Father's_ consent to loving: and surely none need
+break God's commandments because they love each other.  'Tis no breaking
+thereof for me to meet and talk with Sir _Edwin_--of that am I as
+certain as that my name is _Milisent_.  And I have not told a single lie
+about it, sithence my good _Protection_ revealed in mine ear the right
+way not to tell lies: namely, should _Mother_ ask me, "_Milly_, hast
+thou seen again that gentleman?" that I should say out loud, "No,
+_Mother_,"--and whisper to myself, under my breath, "this morrow,"--the
+which should make it perfectly true.  And right glad was I to hear of
+this most neat and delicate way of saving the truth, and yet not
+uttering your secrets.
+
+                                         SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXII.
+If Mistress _Helena Louvaine_ could ever hold her peace from saying just
+the very matter that I would give her a broad shilling to be quiet on!
+Here, now, this even, when all we were sat in hall, what should she
+begin with, but--
+
+"_Father_, there is a thing I would ask at you."
+
+"Say on, my maid," quoth he, right kindly as his wont is: for _Father_
+is alway ready to counsel us maids, whensoever we may desire it.
+
+"Then, _Father_," saith she, "what is falsehood?  Where doth it begin
+and end?  Put a case that I am talking with _Alice Lewthwaite_, and she
+shall ask me somewhat that I list not to tell her.  Should I commit sin,
+if I told her but the half?"
+
+"Hardly plain enough, my maid," saith _Father_.  "As to where falsehood
+begins and ends,--it begins in thine heart: but where it ends, who shall
+tell but God?  But set forth thy case something plainer."
+
+"Well," saith she, "suppose, _Father_, that _Mother_ or you had showed
+to me that _Wat_ was coming home, but had (for some cause you wist, and
+I not) bidden me not to tell the same.  If _Alice_ should say `Hast
+heard aught of late touching _Wat_, _Nell_?' must I say to her plain, `I
+cannot answer thee,'--the which should show her there was a secret: or
+should there be no ill to say `Not to-day,' or `Nought much,' or some
+such matter as that?"
+
+"Should there be any wrong in that, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, as though
+she could not think there should.
+
+"Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "I cannot but think a man's heart is gone
+something wrong when he begins to meddle with casuistry.  The very
+minute that _Adam_ fell from innocence, he took refuge in casuistry.
+There was not one word of untruth in what he said to the Lord: he was
+afraid, and he did hide himself.  Yet there was deception, for it was
+not all the truth--no, nor the half.  As methinks, 'tis alway safest to
+tell out the plain truth, and leave the rest to God."
+
+"_Jack Lewthwaite_ said once," quoth _Edith_, "that at the grammar
+school at _Kendal_, where he was, there was a lad that should speak out
+to the master that which served his turn, and whisper the rest into his
+cap; yet did he maintain stoutly that he told the whole truth.  What
+should you call that, _Father_?"
+
+"A shift got straight from the father of lies," he made answer.  "Trust
+me, that lad shall come to no good, without he repent and change his
+course."
+
+Then Aunt _Joyce_ said somewhat that moved the discourse other whither:
+but I had heard enough to make me rare diseaseful.  When I thought I had
+hit on so excellent a fashion of telling the truth, and yet hiding my
+secrets, to have _Father_ say such things came straight from _Satan_!
+It liketh me not at all.  I would _Nell_ would let things a-be!
+
+                                         SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIV.
+My good _Protection_ tells me 'tis country fashion to count such matter
+deceit, and should never obtain in the Court at all.  And he asked me if
+_Father_ were not given to be a little _Puritan_--he smiling the while
+as though to be a _Puritan_ were somewhat not over well-liked of the
+great.  Then I told him that I knew not well his meaning, for that word
+was strange unto me.  So he said that word _Puritan_ was of late come
+up, to denote certain precise folk that did desire for to be better than
+their neighbours, and most of them only to make a talk, and get
+themselves well accounted of by such common minds as should take them at
+their own appraisement.
+
+"Not, of course," saith he, "that such could ever be the case with a
+gentleman of Sir _Audrey's_ worshipfulness, and with such an angel in
+his house to guard him from all ill."
+
+I did not well like this, for I would alway have _Father_ right well
+accounted of, and not thought to fall into mean country ways.  But then
+'gan he to talk of mine eyes, which he is ever a-praising, and after a
+while I forgat my disease.
+
+Still, I cannot right away with what _Father_ said.  If only _Father_
+and _Mother_ could know all about this matter, and really consent
+thereto, I would be a deal happier.  But my _Protection_ saith that were
+contrary unto all custom of love-matters, and they must well know the
+same: for in all matters where the elders do wit and order the same
+themselves, 'tis always stupid and humdrum for the young folks, and no
+romance left therein at all.
+
+"It should suit well with Mistress _Nell_," saith he, "from what I do
+hear touching her conditions [disposition]: but never were meet for the
+noble and generous soul of my fairest _Amiability_, that is far above
+all such mean things."
+
+So I reckon, if the same always be, I must be content, and not trouble
+me touching _Father's_ and _Mother's_ knowing.  But I do marvel if
+_Father_ and _Mother_ did the like their own selves, for I know they
+married o' love.  Howbeit, _Mother_ had none elders then living, nor
+_Father_ neither, now I come to think thereon: wherefore with them 'twas
+other matter.
+
+Sithence I writ that last, come _Alice_ and _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and
+their _Robin_, to four-hours: and mighty strange it is how folk be for
+ever a-saying things as though they wist what I were a-thinking.  Here
+_Blanche_ saith to _Nell_, that she would account that no jolly wedding
+where her elders had ordered all for her, but would fain choose for
+herself.
+
+"I would likewise fain have my choice go along therewith," saith _Nell_,
+"and so, doubtless, would every maid: nor do I think that any father and
+mother should desire otherwise.  But thou signifiest not, surely,
+_Blanche_, that thou shouldst love to order the whole matter thine own
+self, apart from thine elders' pleasure altogether?"
+
+"Ay, but I would," saith she: "it should have a deal better zest."
+
+"It should have a deal less honesty!" saith _Nell_ with some heat--heat,
+that is, for _Nell_.
+
+"Honesty!" quoth _Blanche_: "soft you now [gently],--what dishonesty
+should be therein?"
+
+"Nay, _Blanche_, measure such dealing thyself by God's ell-wand of the
+Fifth Commandment, and judge if it were honouring thine elders as He bid
+thee."
+
+"I do vow, _Nell_, thou art a _Puritan_!"
+
+"By the which I know not what thou meanest," saith _Nell_, as cool as a
+marble image.
+
+"Why, 'tis a new word of late come up," quoth _Blanche_.  "They do call
+all sad, precise, humdrum folk, _Puritans_."
+
+"Who be `they'?" asks _Nell_.
+
+"Why, all manner of folks--great folk in especial," saith she.
+
+"Come, _Blanche_!" saith _Edith_, "where hast thou jostled with great
+folk?"
+
+"An' I have not," quoth she, something hotly, "I reckon I may have
+talked with some that have."
+
+"No great folk--my Lord _Dilston_ except--ever come to _Derwent-side_,"
+saith _Edith_.
+
+"And could I not discourse with my Lord _Dilston_, if it so pleased him
+and me?" quoth _Blanche_, yet something angered.
+
+"Come, my maids, fall not out," saith _Alice_.  "Thou well wist,
+_Blanche_, thou hast had no talk with my Lord _Dilston_, that is known
+all o'er for the bashfullest and silentest man with women ever was.  I
+do marvel how he e'er gat wed, without his elders did order it for him."
+
+Well, at this we all laughed, and _Alice_ turned the talk aside to other
+matter, for I think she saw that _Blanche's_ temper (which is ne'er that
+of an angel) were giving way.
+
+I cannot help to be somewhat diseaseful, for it seemeth me as though
+_Blanche_ might hint at Sir _Edwin_.  And I do trust he hath not been
+a-flattering of her.  She is metely well-looking,--good of stature, and
+a fair fresh face, grey eyen, and fair hair, as have the greater part of
+maids about here, but her nose turns up too much for beauty.  She is not
+for to compare with me nor _Edith_.
+
+I must ask at Sir _Edwin_ to-morrow if he wist aught of _Blanche_.  If I
+find him double-tongued--good lack! but methinks I would ne'er see him
+no more, though it should break mine heart--as I cast no doubt it
+should.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXV.
+'Tis all well, and _Blanche_ could not have meant to hint at my
+_Protection_.  I asked at him if he knew one _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and
+he seemed fair astonied, and said he knew no such an one, nor that any
+of that name dwelt in all the vale.  Then I told him wherefore I had
+asked it.  And he said that to think I was jealous of any for him did
+him uttermost honour and pleasance, but did his fairest _Amiability_
+(quo' he) think he could so much as look on any other face at after
+hers?
+
+Then I asked at him (as I had often desired to wit) where he were of a
+_Sunday_, for that he never came to church.  And he told me that he had
+an old friend, a parson, dwelling on _Winander-side_, and he did alway
+abide with him o'er the _Sunday_.  Moreover he was something feared
+(saith he) to be seen at _Keswick_ church, lest _Father_ should get
+scent of him, wherefore he did deny himself the delight it had been
+(quoth he) to feast his eyes on the fair face of his most sweet
+_Amiability_.
+
+"Then," said I, laughing, "you did not desire for to see _Father_ at the
+first?"
+
+"Soft you now!" saith he, and laughed too.  "`All is fair in love and
+war.'"
+
+"I doubt if _Father_ should say the same," said I.
+
+"Well, see you," quoth he, "Sir _Aubrey_ is a right excellent gentleman,
+yet hath he some precise notions which obtain not at Court and in such
+like company.  A man cannot square all his dealings by the Bible and the
+parsons, without he go out of the world.  And here away in the country,
+where every man hath known you from your cradle, it is easier to ride of
+an hobby than in Town, where you must do like other folk or else be
+counted singular and ridiculous.  No brave and gallant man would run the
+risk of being thought singular."
+
+"Why, _Father's_ notion is right the contrary," said I.  "I have heard
+him to say divers times that 'tis the cowards which dare not be laughed
+at, and that it takes a right brave man to dare to be thought singular."
+
+"Exactly!" saith he.  "That is right the _Puritan_ talk, as I had the
+honour to tell you aforetime.  You should never hear no gentleman of the
+Court to say no such a thing."
+
+"But," said I, "speak they alway the most truth in the Court?"
+
+This seemed to divert him rarely.  He laughed for a minute as though he
+should ne'er give o'er.
+
+"My fairest _Amiability_," saith he, "had I but thee in the Court, as is
+the only place meet for thee, then shouldst thou see how admired of
+every creature were thy wondrous wit and most incomparable beauties.
+Why, I dare be sworn on all the books in _Cumberland_, thou shouldest be
+of the Queen's Majesty's maids in one week's time.  And of the delights
+and jollities of that life, dwelling here in a corner of _England_, thou
+canst not so much as cast an idea."  Methought that should be right
+rare.
+
+                                        SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXVII.
+With Aunt _Joyce_ this morrow to visit old _Nanny Crewdson_, that is
+brother's widow to _Isaac_, and dwelleth in a cot up _Thirlmere_ way.  I
+would fain have avoided the same an' I might, for I never took no list
+in visiting poor folk, and sithence I have wist my right noble
+_Protection_ do I take lesser than ever.  In very deed, all relish is
+gone for me out of every thing but him and the jolly Court doings
+whereof he tells me.  And I am ever so much happier than I was of old,
+with nought but humdrum matter; only that now and then, for a short
+while, I am a deal more miserabler.  I cannot conceive what it is that
+cometh o'er me at those times.  'Tis like as if I were dancing on
+flowers, and some unseen hand did now and then push aside the flowers,
+and I saw a great and horrible black gulf underneath, and that one false
+step should cast me down therein.  Nor will any thing comfort me, at
+those times, but to talk with my _Protection_, that can alway dispel the
+gloom.  But the things around, that I have been bred up in, do grow more
+and more distasteful unto me than ever.
+
+Howbeit, I am feared to show folk the same, so when Aunt _Joyce_ called
+me to come with her to _Nanny_, I made none ado, but tied on mine hood
+and went.
+
+We found old _Nanny_--that is too infirm for aught but to sit of a chair
+in the sunshine--so doing by the window, beside her a little table, and
+thereon a great Bible open, with her spectacles of her nose, that she
+pulled off and wiped, and set down of the book to keep her place.
+
+"Well, _Nanny_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "`Sitting down under His shadow,'
+dear heart?"
+
+"Ay, Mistress _Joyce_," saith she, "and `with great delight.'"
+
+I marvel if old folk do really like to read the Bible.  I never did.
+And the older I grow, the lesser doth it like me.  Can they mean it,
+trow?  If they do, then I suppose I shall like it when I am as old as
+_Nanny_.  But, good lack! what gloomsome manner of life must that be,
+wherein one shall find one's diversion in reading of the Bible!
+
+I know _Father_ and _Mother_ would say clean contrary.  But they, see
+you, were bred up never to see a Bible in _English_ till they were
+grown: which is as different as can be to the like of us maids, that
+never knew the day when it lay not of the hall table.  But therein runs
+my pen too fast, for _Anstace_ can well remember Queen _Mary's_ time,
+though _Nell_ scarce can do so,--only some few matters here and there.
+
+So then Aunt _Joyce_ and _Nan_ fell a-talking,--and scarce so much as a
+word could I conceive.  [Note 1.]  They might well-nigh as good have
+talked _Greek_ for me.  Yet one matter will I set down the which I mean
+to think o'er--some time, when I am come to divert me with the Bible,
+and am as old as _Nanny_.  Not now, of course.
+
+"Where art reading, _Nanny_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"In _Esaias_, Mistress _Joyce_.  Fifty-eighth chapter, first and second
+verses.  There's fine reading in _Esaias_."
+
+"Ay, _Nan_, there is," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "But what toucheth it?  I am
+ill set to remember chapter and verse."
+
+"Well, Mistress, first it saith, `Show My people their transgression.'
+And i' th' very next verse,--`Yet they seek me daily,'--nay, there's
+more--`they take delight in approaching to God.'"
+
+"Well, _Nan_?  That reads strange,--no doth it?"
+
+"Ah, it doth, Mistress _Joyce_.  But I think, look ye, there's a deal i'
+th' word _approaching_.  See ye, it saith not they take delight to get
+near.  Nay, folk o' that make has a care not to get too near.  They'll
+lay down a chalk line, and they'll stop outside on't.  If they'd only
+come near enough, th' light 'd burn up all them transgressions: but, ye
+see, that wouldn't just suit 'em.  These is folk that wants to have th'
+Lord--a tidy way from 'em--and keep th' transgressions too.  Eh,
+Mistress, but when a man can pray right through th' hundred and
+thirty-ninth Psalm, his heart's middlin' perfect wi' the Lord.
+Otherwise, he'll boggle at them last verses.  We don't want Him to
+search us when we know He'll find yon wedge o' gold and yon _Babylonish_
+garment if He do.  Nay, we don't so!"
+
+Now, I know not o'er well what old _Nan_ meaneth: but this do I know--
+that whenever I turn o'er the _Psalter_, I ever try to get yon Psalm
+betwixt two leaves, and turn them o'er both together, so that I see not
+a word on't.  I reckon _Nan_ should say my heart was not perfect by a
+great way.  Well, may-be she'd be none so far out.
+
+                                         SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXIX.
+To-morrow shall be the last day of my month, and _Tuesday_ even must I
+give up the book to _Edith_.  I shall not tear out the leaves till the
+last minute, and I will keep them when I do.
+
+I do never see nought of my _Protection_ of a _Sunday_, but all other
+days meet I him now (whenas I can) in the little copse that lieth
+_Thirlmere_ way, not so far from _Nanny's_ hut.  Last even was he
+essaying to win me for to wed him (as he hath done afore) without
+_Father_ and _Mother_ knowing.  I have ever held off till now: but I am
+not so sure I shall do it much longer.  He saith he wist a _Popish_
+priest that should do it: and it so done, _Father_ and _Mother_ must
+needs come in and give us leave to be wed rightly in church.  But I will
+consider of the same a day or twain longer.
+
+As to setting down what we do of a _Sunday_, 'tis alway the same o'er
+again, so it should be to no good.  Once is enough for all.
+
+                                         SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE LAST.
+Such a fright have I had this morrow, I may scantly hold my pen.  I set
+forth for the copse where I do meet with my _Protection_, and had
+well-nigh reached it,--verily, I could discern him coming through the
+trees to meet me--when from _Nanny's_ hut, right upon us, who should
+come out save _Father_, and _Mother_, and _Edith_, their own selves.  I
+cast but a glint to him that he should not note me, and walked on to
+meet them.
+
+"Why, _Milly_!" saith _Mother_.  "I wist not thou wert coming this way,
+child."
+
+"Under your pleasure, _Mother_, no more did I of you," said I.
+
+"Why, _Milly_, do but look at yon gentleman!" saith _Edith_, as he
+passed by us, taking no note of us at all.  "Is it not the same we met
+on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle?"
+
+"Is it so?" said I, making believe to look after him, the rather since
+it gave me an excuse to turn my back on them.  "He bears a green
+jerkin,--otherwise--"
+
+Wherein I am very sure I said _no_ falsity, as whatso _Father_ might
+say.
+
+"I do think it is the same," saith _Edith_.  "Came he ever to speak with
+you, _Father_?"
+
+"Nay, my lass, I mind him not," saith _Father_.
+
+"He is not ill-looking," saith _Mother_.
+
+"May-be not," quoth _Father_.  "Thou art a better judge of such matters
+than I, dear heart.  I only note the way a man's soul looketh out of his
+eyes, not the colour of the eyes whence it looketh."
+
+"Now, _Father_, under your good leave, that is not well said," _Edith_
+makes answer: "for you have your own self the fairest eyes ever a man's
+soul looked forth of."
+
+_Father_ laughs at this, and doffs his cap merrily.
+
+"Your very humble servant, Mistress _Editha Louvaine_," quoth he: "when
+I do desire to send forth to the world a book of all my beauties,
+learning, and virtues, I will bid you to write therein touching mine
+eyes.  They serve me well to see withal, I thank God, and beyond that
+issue have I never troubled me regarding them."
+
+"And how liked you the manner of Sir _Edwin Tregarvon's_ soul looking
+forth, _Father_?" saith _Edith_, also laughing.
+
+"Why, that could I not see," quoth he, "for he keeping his eyes bent
+upon the ground, it did not look forth.  But I cannot say his face
+altogether pleased me."
+
+How mighty strange is it that all they--and in especial _Father_, that I
+have alway reckoned so wise--should have so little discernment!
+
+Well, methought, as they were there, I must needs come home with them:
+and this afternoon, if I can steal hence without any seeing me, will I
+go yet again to the copse, to see if I may find my _Protection_: for I
+have well-nigh granted the privy wedding he hath pled so hard for, and
+this morrow we thought to order the inwards thereof [settle the
+details].  As next _Sunday_ at even, saith he, I am to steal forth of
+the garden door, and he shall meet me in the lane with an hackney and
+two or three serving-men for guard: and so go we forth to _Ambleside_,
+where the priest shall join our hands, and then come back and entreat
+_Father_ and _Mother's_ pardon and blessing.  I dare be bound there
+shall be much commotion, and some displeasant speeches; but I trust all
+shall blow o'er in time: and after all (as saith my _Protection_) when
+there is no hope that _Father_ and _Mother_ should give us leave
+aforehand, what else can we do?
+
+Verily, it is a sore trouble that elders will stand thus in young folks'
+way that do love each other.  And my _Protection_ is not so much elder
+than I.  In the stead of only ten or fifteen years younger than
+_Father_, he is twenty-five well reckoned, having but four-and-thirty
+years: and I was twenty my last birthday, which is two months gone.  And
+if he look (as he alloweth) something elder than his years, it is, as he
+hath told me, but trouble and sorrow, of which he hath known much.  My
+poor _Protection_! in good sooth, I am sorry for his trouble.
+
+I shall not tear out my leaves afore I am back, and meantime, I do keep
+the book right heedfully under lock and key.
+
+As for any paying of two-pences, that is o'er for me now; so there were
+no good to reckon them up.  My noble _Protection_ saith, when he hath
+but once gat me safe to the Court, then shall I have a silken gown every
+day I do live, and jewelling so much as ever I shall desire.  He will
+set off his _Amiability_ (quoth he) that all shall see and wonder at
+her.  Though I count _Father_ doth love me, yet am I sure, my
+_Protection_ loveth me a deal the more.  'Tis only fitting, therefore,
+that I cleave to him rather.
+
+Now must I go forth and see if I may meet with him.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Note 1.  The words _understand_ and _conceive_ have changed places since
+the days of Elizabeth.  To understand then meant to originate an idea:
+to conceive, to realise an imparted thought.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER FIVE.
+
+AUNT JOYCE SPOILS THE GAME.
+
+  "We shun two paths, my maiden,
+      When strangers' way we tell--
+  That which ourselves we know not,
+      That which we know too well.
+
+  "I `never knew!'  Thou think'st it?
+      Well!  Better so, to-day.
+  The years lie thick and mossy
+      O'er that long-silent way.
+
+  "The roses there are withered,
+      The thorns are tipped with pain:
+  Thou wonderest if I tell thee
+      `Walk not that way again?'
+
+  "Oh eyes that see no further
+      Than this world's glare and din!
+  I warn thee from that pathway
+      Because I slipped therein.
+
+  "So, leave the veil up-hanging!
+      And tell the world outside--
+  `She cannot understand me--
+      She nothing has to hide!'"
+
+(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
+
+                                       SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FIRST.
+I would have fain let be the records of this sad first day that this
+chronicle is come to mine hand.  But _Father_ and _Mother_ do desire me
+to set down honestly what hath happed, the which therefore I must essay
+to do.
+
+It was of long time that I had noted a strange difference in _Milly_,
+and had talked with _Nell_ thereabout, more than once or twice.  Though
+_Milisent_ is by four years elder than I, yet she had alway been the one
+of us most loving frolicsome merriment.  But now it seemed me as though
+she had grown up over my head, all at once.  Not that she was less
+mirthful at times: nay, rather more, if aught.  But at other times she
+seemed an other maid, and not our _Milly_ at all.  It was not our
+_Milly's_ wont to sit with her hands of her lap, a-gazing from the
+window; nor to answer sharp and short when one spake to her; nor to
+appear all unrestful, as though she were in disease of mind.  And at
+last, _Nell_ thinking less thereof than I, I made up my mind to speak
+with Aunt _Joyce_, that I knew was wise and witty [sensible], and if
+there were aught gone wrong, should take it less hard than _Mother_, and
+could break the same to _Mother_ more gentler than we.  To say truth, I
+was feared--and yet I scarce knew why--of that man we met on Saint
+_Hubert's_ Isle.  I had noted that _Milly_ never named him, though he
+were somewhat cause of mirth betwixt _Helen_ and me: and when an other
+so did, she seemed as though she essayed to speak as careless as ever
+she could.  This liked me not: nor did it like me that twice I had met
+_Milly_ coming from the garden, and she went red as fire when she saw
+me.  From all this I feared some secret matter that should not be: and
+as yester-morrow, when we were come from _Nanny's_, I brake my mind to
+Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ did not cry "Pish!" nor fault me for conceiving foolish
+fantasies, as I was something feared she might.  On the contrary part,
+she heard me very kindly and heedfully, laying down her work to give
+better ear.  When I had done, she saith--
+
+"Tell me, _Edith_, what like is this man."
+
+I told her so well as I could.
+
+"And how oft hast thou seen him?"
+
+"Three times, _Aunt_.  The first on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle, whereof you
+know: the second, I met him once in the lane behind the garden, as I was
+a-coming home from _Isaac Crewdson's_: and the last, this morrow, just
+as we came out of _Nanny's_ door, we met _Milisent_, full face: and a
+minute at after, this Sir _Edwin_ passed us on the road."
+
+"Took he any note of you, either time?"
+
+"When he met me alone, he doffed his cap and smiled, but spake not.
+This morrow he took no note of any one."
+
+"_Could_ she be going to meet him?" saith Aunt _Joyce_ in a low and very
+troubled voice.
+
+"In good sooth, _Aunt_," said I, "you have put into words my very fear,
+which I did scarce dare to think right out."
+
+"_Edith_," saith she, "is _Milly_ within, or no?"
+
+"She was tying on her hood a moment since, as though she meant to go
+forth.  I saw her through a chink of the door, which was not close shut,
+as I passed by."
+
+"Come thou with me quickly," saith Aunt _Joyce_, and rose up.  "We will
+follow her.  'Tis no treachery to lay snare for a traitor, if it be as I
+fear.  And 'tis not she that is the traitor, poor child--poor, foolish
+child!"
+
+We walked quickly, for our aim was to keep _Milisent_ but just in view,
+yet not to let her see us.  She was walking fast, too, and she took the
+road to _Nanny's_, but turned off just ere she were there, into the
+little shaw that lieth by the way.  We followed quietly, till we could
+hear voices: then Aunt _Joyce_ stayed her behind a poplar-tree, and made
+me a sign to be still.
+
+"All things be now ordered, my fairest," I heard a voice say which
+methought was Sir _Edwin's_: and peeping heedfully round the poplar, I
+caught a glimpse of his side-face, enough to be sure it were he.  Aunt
+_Joyce_ could see him likewise.  "All things be ordered," quoth he:
+"remember, nine o' the clock on _Sunday_ night."
+
+"But thou wilt not fail me?" saith _Milisent's_ voice in answer.
+
+"Fail thee!" he made answer.  "My sweetest of maids, impossible!"
+
+"I feel afeared," she saith again.  "I would they had wist at home.  I
+cannot be sure 'tis right."
+
+"Nay, sweet heart, call not up these old ghosts I have laid so oft
+already," saith he.  "Sir _Aubrey's Puritan_ notions should never
+suffer him to give thee leave afore: but when done, he shall right soon
+o'erlook all, and all shall go merry as a marriage bell.  Seest thou, we
+do him in truth a great kindness, sith he should be feared to give
+consent, and yet would fain so do if his conscience should allow."
+
+"Would he?" asks _Milly_, in something a troubled tone.
+
+"Would he!"  Sir _Edwin_ makes answer.  "Would he have his daughter a
+right great lady at the Court?  Why, of course he would.  Every man
+would that were not a born fool.  My honey-sweet _Milisent_, let not
+such vain scruples terrify thee.  They are but shadows, I do ensure
+thee."
+
+"I think thus when I am with thee," saith she, smiling up in his face:
+"but when not--"
+
+"Sweet heart," saith he, bending his goodly head, "_not_ is well-nigh
+over, and then thy cruel _Puritan_ scruples shall never trouble thee
+more."
+
+"It is as we feared," I whispered into the ear of Aunt _Joyce_, whose
+face was turned from me: but when she turned her head, I was terrified.
+I never in my life saw Aunt _Joyce_ look as she did then.  Out of her
+cheeks and lips every drop of blood seemed driven, and her eyes were
+blazing fire.  When she whispered back, it was through her set teeth.
+
+"`As!'  Far worse.  Worser than thou wist.  Is this the man?"
+
+"This is Sir _Edwin_!"
+
+Without another word Aunt _Joyce_ stalked forth, and had _Milisent_ by
+the arm ere she found time to scream.  Then she shrieked and shrank, but
+Aunt _Joyce_ held her fast.
+
+"Get you gone!" was all she said to Sir _Edwin_.
+
+"Nay, Mistress, tell me rather by what right--"
+
+"Right!"  Aunt _Joyce_ loosed her hold of _Milisent_, and went and stood
+right before him.  "Right!--from you to me!"
+
+"Mistress, I cry you mercy, but we be entire strangers."
+
+"Be we?" she made answer, with more bitterness in her voice than ever I
+heard therein.  "Be we such strangers?  What! think you I know you not,
+_Leonard Norris_?  You counted on the change of all these years to hide
+you from _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_, and you counted safely enough.  They
+would not know you if they stood here.  But did you fancy years could
+hide you from _Joyce Morrell_?  Traitor! a woman will know the man she
+has loved, though his own mother were to pass him by unnoted."
+
+Sir _Edwin_ uttered not a word, but stood gazing on Aunt _Joyce_ as
+though she had bound him by a spell.
+
+She turned back to us a moment.  "_Milisent_ and _Edith_, go home!" she
+saith.  "_Milisent_, thank God that He hath saved thee from the very
+jaws of Hell--from a man worser than any fiend.  _Edith_, tell thy
+father what hath happed, but say nought of all this to thy mother.  I
+shall follow you anon.  I have yet more ado with him here.  Make thy
+mind easy, child--he'll not harm _me_.  Now go."
+
+_Milisent_ needed no persuasions.  She seemed as though Aunt _Joyce's_
+words had stunned her, and she followed me like a dog.  We spake no word
+to each other all the way.  When we reached home, _Milly_ went straight
+up to her own chamber: and I, being mindful of Aunt _Joyce's_ bidding,
+went in search of _Father_, whom I found at his books in his closet.
+
+Ah me, but what sore work it were to tell him!  I might scarce bear to
+see the sorrowful changes wrought in his face.  But when I came to tell
+how Aunt _Joyce_ had called this gentleman by the name of _Leonard
+Norris_, for one minute his eyes blazed out like hers.  Then they went
+very dark and troubled, and he hid his face in his hands till I had made
+an end of my sad story.
+
+"And I would fain not have been she that told you, _Father_," said I,
+"but Aunt _Joyce_ bade me so to do."
+
+"I must have heard it from some lips, daughter," he saith sorrowfully.
+"But have a care thou say no word to thy mother.  She must hear it from
+none but me.  My poor _Lettice_!--and my poor _Milisent_, my poor,
+foolish, duped child!"
+
+I left him then, for I thought he would desire it, and went up to
+_Milly_.  She had cast off her hood and tippet, and lay on her bed, her
+face turned to the wall.
+
+"Dost lack aught, _Milly_?" said I.
+
+"Nay," was all she said.
+
+"Shall I bide with thee?"
+
+"Nay."
+
+Nor one word more might I get out of her.  So I left her likewise, and
+came down to the little parlour, where I sat me to my sewing.
+
+It was about an hour after that I heard Aunt _Joyce's_ firm tread on the
+gravel.  She came into the parlour, and looked around as though to see
+who were there.  Then she saith--
+
+"None but thee, _Edith_?  Where are the rest?"
+
+There was a break in her voice, such as folk have when they have been
+sore troubled.
+
+"I have been alone this hour, _Aunt_.  _Milly_ is in our chamber, and
+_Father_ I left in his closet.  Whither _Mother_ and _Nell_ be I know
+not."
+
+"Hast told him?"
+
+"Ay, and he said only himself must tell _Mother_."
+
+"I knew he would.  God help her!"
+
+"You think she shall take it very hard, _Aunt_?"
+
+"_Edith_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ softly, "there is more to take hard than
+thou wist.  And we know not well yet all the ill he may have wrought to
+_Milisent_."
+
+Then away went she, and I heard her to rap on the door of _Father's_
+closet.  For me, I sat and sewed a while longer: and yet none coming, I
+went up to our chamber, partly that I should wash mine hands, and partly
+to see what was come of _Milly_.
+
+She still lay on the bed, but her face turned somewhat more toward me,
+and by her shut eyes and even breathing I could guess that she slept.  I
+sat me down in the window to wait, when mine hands were washen: for I
+thought some should come after a while, and may-be should not count it
+right that I left _Milisent_ all alone.  I guess it were a good
+half-hour I there sat, and _Milly_ slept on.  At the last come _Mother_,
+her eyes very red as though she had wept much.
+
+"Doth she sleep, _Edith_?" she whispered.
+
+I said, "Ay, _Mother_: she hath slept this half-hour or more."
+
+"Poor child!" she saith.  "If only I could have wist sooner!  How much I
+might have saved her!  O poor child!"
+
+The water welled up in her eyes again, and she went away, something in
+haste.  I had thought _Mother_ should be angered, and I was something
+astonied to see how soft she were toward _Milly_.  A while after, Aunt
+_Joyce_ come in: but _Milly_ slept on.
+
+"I am fain to see that," saith she, nodding her head toward the bed.  "A
+good sign.  Yet I would I knew exactly how she hath taken it."
+
+"I am afeared she may be angered, Aunt _Joyce_, to be thus served of one
+she trusted."
+
+"I hope so much.  'Twill be the best thing she can be.  The question is
+what she loved--whether himself or his flattering of herself.  She'll
+soon get over the last, for it shall be nought worser with her than hurt
+vanity."
+
+"Not the first, _Aunt_?"
+
+"I do not know, _Edith_," she saith, and crushed in her lips.  "That
+hangs on what sort of woman she be.  There shall be a wound, in either
+case: but with some it gets cicatrised over and sound again with time,
+and with other some it tarries an open issue for ever.  It hangs all on
+the manner of woman."
+
+"What should it be with you, Aunt _Joyce_?" said I, though I were
+something feared of mine own venturesomeness.
+
+"What it _is_, _Edith_," she made answer, crushing in her lips again,
+"is the open issue, bandaged o'er so that none knows it is there save He
+to whose eyes all things be open.  Child, there be some things in life
+wherein the only safe confidant thou canst have is _Jesu Christ_.  I say
+so much, by reason that thine elders think it best--and I likewise--that
+ye maids should be told somewhat more than ye have heard aforetime.  Ay,
+I give full assent thereto.  I only held out for one thing--that I, not
+your mother, should be she that were to tell it."
+
+We were silent a moment, and then _Milisent_ stirred in her sleep.  Aunt
+_Joyce_ went to her.
+
+"Awake, my dear heart?" saith she.
+
+_Milly_ sat up, and pushed aside her hair from her face, the which was
+flushed and sullen.
+
+"Aunt _Joyce_, may the Lord forgive you for this day's work!" saith she.
+
+I was fair astonied that she should dare thus to speak.  But Aunt
+_Joyce_ was in no wise angered.
+
+"Amen!" she saith, as softly as might be spoken.  "Had I no worser sins
+to answer for, methinks I should stand the judgment."
+
+"No worser!"  _Milisent_ blazed forth.  "What, you think it a light
+matter to part two hearts that love well and truly?"
+
+"Nay, truly, I think it right solemn matter," saith Aunt _Joyce_, still
+softly.  "And if aught graver can be, _Milly_, it is to part two whereof
+the one loveth well, and the other--may God forgive us all!"
+
+"What mean you now?" saith _Milisent_ of the same fashion.  "Is it my
+love you doubt, or his?"
+
+"_Milisent Louvaine_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "if thou be alive twenty
+years hence, thou shalt thank God from thy very heart-root that thou
+wert stayed on that road to-day."
+
+"Oh ay, that is what folk always say!" murmurs she, and laid her down
+again.  "`Thou wilt thank me twenty years hence,' quoth they, every
+stinging stroke of the birch.  And they look for us beaten hounds to
+crede it, forsooth!"
+
+"Ay--when the twenty years be over."
+
+"I am little like to thank you at twenty years' end," saith _Milly_
+sullenly, "for I count I shall die of heart-break afore twenty weeks."
+
+"No, _Milly_, I think not."
+
+"And much you care!"
+
+Then I saw Aunt _Joyce's_ face alter--terribly.
+
+"_Milisent_," she said, "if I had not cared, I should scantly have gone
+of set purpose through that which wrung every fibre of my heart, ay, to
+the heart's core."
+
+"It wrung me more than you," _Milisent_ makes answer, of the same
+bitter, angered tone as aforetime.
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ turned away from the bed, and I saw pain and choler strive
+for a moment in her eyes.  Then the choler fell back, and the pain
+abode.
+
+"Poor child!  She cannot conceive it."  She said nought sterner; and she
+came and sat in the window alongside of me.
+
+"I tell you, Aunt _Joyce_,"--and _Milisent_ sat up again, and let
+herself down, and came and stood before us--"I tell you, you have ruined
+my life!"
+
+"My maid," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer, with sore trouble in her voice,
+"thine elders will fain have thee and thy sisters told a tale the which
+we have alway kept from you until now.  It was better hidden, unless you
+needed the lesson.  But now they think it shall profit thee, and may-be
+save _Helen_ and _Edith_ from making any like blunder.  And--well, I
+have granted it.  Only I stood out for one point--that I myself should
+be the one to tell it you.  Wait till thou hast heard that story, the
+which I will tell thee to-morrow.  And at after thou hast heard it,--
+then tell me, _Milly_, whether I cared for thee this morrow, or whether
+the hand that hath ruined thy life were the hand of _Joyce Morrell_."
+
+"Oh, but you were cruel, cruel!" sobbed _Milly_.  "I loved him so!"
+
+"So did I, _Milisent_," saith Aunt _Joyce_ very softly, "long ere you
+maids were born.  Loved him so fondly, trusted him so wholly, clung to
+him so faithfully, that mine eyes had to be torn open before I would see
+the truth--that even now, after all these years, it is like thrusting a
+dagger into my soul to tell you verily who and what he is.  Ay, child, I
+loved that man in mine early maidenhood, better than ever thou didst or
+wouldst have done.  Dost thou think it was easy to stand up to the face
+that I had loved, and to play the avenging angel toward his perfidy?  If
+thou dost, thou mayest know much of foolishness and fantasy, but very
+little of true and real love."
+
+_Milisent_ seemed something startled and cowed.  Then all suddenly she
+saith,--"But, Aunt _Joyce_!  He told me he were only of four-and-thirty
+years."
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ laughed bitterly.
+
+"Wert so poor an innocent as to crede that, _Milly_?" saith she.  "He is
+a year elder than thy father.  But I grant, he looks by far younger than
+he is.  And I reckon he 'bated ten years or so of what he looked.  He
+alway looked young," she saith, the softened tone coming back into her
+voice.  "Men with fair hair like his, mostly do, until all at once they
+break into aged men.  And he hath kept him well, with washes and
+unguents."
+
+It was strange to hear how the softness and the bitterness strave
+together in her voice.  I count it were by reason they so strave in her
+heart.
+
+"Wait till to-morrow, _Milly_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, arising.  "Thou
+shalt hear then of my weary walk through the thorns, and judge for
+thyself if I had done well to leave thee to the like."
+
+_Milly_ sobbed again, but methought something more softly.
+
+"We were to have been wed o' _Sunday_ even," saith she, "by a _Popish_
+priest, right as good as in church,--and then to have come home and won
+_Father_ and _Mother_ to forgive us and bless us.  Then all had been
+smooth and sweet, and we should have lived happy ever after."
+
+Oh, but what pitifulness was there in Aunt _Joyce's_ smile!
+
+"Should you?" saith she, in a tone which seemed to me like the biggest
+nay ever printed in a book.  "Poor innocent child!  A _Popish_ priest
+cannot lawfully wed any, and evening is out of the canonical hours.
+Wist thou not that such marriage should ne'er have held good in law?"
+
+"It might have been good in God's sight, trow," saith she, something
+perversely.
+
+"Nay!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "When men go to, of set purpose, to break
+the laws of their country,--without it be in obedience to His plain
+command,--I see not how the Lord shall hold them guiltless.  So he
+promised to bring thee home to ask pardon, did he?  Poor, trusting,
+deluded child!  Thou shouldst never have come home, _Milly_--unless it
+had been a year or twain hence, a forlorn, heart-broken, wretched thing.
+Well, we could have forgiven thee and comforted thee then--as we will
+now."
+
+I am right weary a-writing, and will stay mine hand till I set down
+_Aunt's_ story to-morrow.
+
+                                       SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE SECOND.
+I marvel when I can make an end of writing, or when matters shall have
+done happening.  For early this morrow, ere breakfast were well over,
+come a quick rap of the door, which _Caitlin_ opened, and in come _Alice
+Lewthwaite_.  Not a bit like herself looked she, with a scarf but just
+cast o'er her head, and all out of breath, as though she had come forth
+all suddenly, and had run fast and far.  We had made most of us an end
+of eating, but were yet sat at the table.
+
+"_Alice_, dear heart, what aileth thee?" saith _Mother_, and rose up.
+
+"Lady _Lettice_, do pray you tell me," panteth she, "if you have seen or
+heard aught of our _Blanche_?"
+
+"Nay, _Alice_, in no wise," saith _Mother_.
+
+"Lack the day!" quoth she, "then our fears be true."
+
+"What fears, dear heart?"  I think _Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt
+_Joyce_, asked at her all together.
+
+"I would as lief say nought, saving to my Lady, and Mistress _Joyce_,"
+she saith: so they bare her away, and what happed at that time I cannot
+say, saving that _Father_ himself took _Alice_ home, and did seem
+greatly concerned at her trouble.  Well, this was scantly o'er ere a
+messenger come with a letter to _Mother_, whereon she had no sooner cast
+her eyes than she brake forth with a cry of pleasure.  Then, _Father_
+desiring to know what it were, she told us all that certain right dear
+and old friends of hers, the which she had not seen of many years, were
+but now at the _Salutation_ Inn at _Ambleside_, and would fain come on
+and tarry a season here if it should suit with _Mother's_ conveniency to
+have them.
+
+"And right fain should I be," saith she; and so said _Father_ likewise.
+
+Then _Mother_ told us who were these her old friends: to wit, Sir
+_Robert Stafford_ and his lady, which was of old time one Mistress
+_Dulcibel Fenton_, of far kin unto my Lady _Norris_, that was _Mother's_
+mistress of old days at _Minster Lovel_: and moreover, one Mistress
+_Martin_, a widow that is sister unto Sir _Robert_, and was _Mother's_
+fellow when she served my dear-worthy Lady of _Surrey_.  So _Father_
+saith he would ride o'er himself to _Ambleside_, and give them better
+welcome than to send but a letter back: and _Mother_ did desire her most
+loving commendations unto them all, and bade us all be hasteful and help
+to make ready the guest-chambers.  So right busy were we all the morrow,
+and no time for no tales of no sort: but in the afternoon, when all was
+done, Aunt _Joyce_ had us three up into her chamber, and bade us sit and
+listen.
+
+"For it is a sorrowful story I have to tell," saith she: and added, as
+though she spake to herself,--"ay, and it were best got o'er ere
+_Dulcie_ cometh."
+
+So we sat all in the window-seat, _Milly_ in the midst, and Aunt _Joyce_
+afore us in a great cushioned chair.
+
+"When I was of your years, _Milly_," saith she, "I dwelt--where I now do
+at _Minster Lovel_, with my father and my sister _Anstace_.  Our mother
+was dead, and our baby brother _Walter_; and of us there had never been
+more.  But we had two cousins--one _Aubrey Louvaine_, the son of our
+mother's sister,--you wot who he is," she saith, and smiled: "and the
+other, the son of our father's sister dwelt at _Oxford_ with his mother,
+a widow, and his name was--_Leonard Norris_."
+
+The name was so long a-coming that I marvelled if she meant to tell us.
+
+"I do not desire to make my tale longer than need is, dear hearts,"
+pursueth she, "and therefore I will but tell you that in course of time,
+with assent of my father and his mother, my cousin _Leonard_ and I were
+troth-plight.  I loved him, methinks, as well as it was in woman to love
+man: and--I thought he loved me.  I never knew a man who had such a
+tongue to cajole a woman's heart.  He could talk in such a fashion that
+thou shouldst feel perfectly assured that he loved thee with all his
+heart, and none but thee: and ere the sun had set, he should have given
+the very same certainty to _Nan_ at the farm, and to _Mall_ down in the
+glen.  I believe he did rarely make love to so little as one woman at
+once.  He liked--he once told your father so much--a choice of strings
+for his bow.  But of all this, at first, lost in my happy love, I knew
+nothing.  My love to him was so true and perfect, that the very notion
+that his could be lesser than so never entered mine head.  It was
+_Anstace_ who saw the clouds gathering before any other--_Anstace_, to
+whom, in her helpless suffering, God gave a strange power of reading
+hearts.  There came a strange maiden on the scene--a beautiful maiden,
+with fair eyes and gleaming hair--and _Leonard's_ heart was gone from me
+for ever.  Gone!--had it ever come?  I cannot tell.  May-be some little
+corner of his heart was mine, once on a time--I doubt if I had more.  He
+had every corner and every throb of mine.  Howbeit, when this maid--"
+
+"How was she called, Aunt _Joyce_?" saith _Milly_, in rather an hard
+voice.
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ did not make answer for a moment: and, looking up on her, I
+saw drawn brows and flushed cheeks.
+
+"Never mind that, _Milly_.  I shall call her _Mary_.  It was not her
+name.  Well, when this maid first came to visit us, and I brought her
+above to my sister, that as ye know might never arise from the couch
+whereon she lay--I something marvelled to see how quick from her face to
+mine went _Anstace'_ eyes, and back again to her.  I knew, long after,
+what had been her thought.  She had no faith in _Leonard_, and she
+guessed quick enough that this face should draw him away from me.  She
+tried to prepare me as she saw it coming.  But I was blind and deaf.  I
+shut mine eyes tight, and put my fingers in mine ears.  I would not face
+the cruel truth.  For _Mary_ herself, I am well assured she meant me no
+ill, nor did she see that any ill was wrought till all were o'er.  She
+did but divert her with _Leonard's_ words, caring less for him than for
+them.  She was vain, and loved flatteries, and he saw it, and gave her
+them by the bushel.  She was a child laking with a firebrand, and never
+knew what it were until she burnt her fingers.  And at last, maids, mine
+eyes were forced open.  _Leonard_ himself told me, and in so many words,
+what I had refused to hear from others,--that he loved well enough the
+gold that was like to be mine, but he did not love me.  There were
+bitter words on both sides, but mine were bitterest.  And so, at last,
+we parted.  I could show you the flag on which he stood when I saw his
+face for the last time--the last, until I saw it yester-morrow.  Others
+had seen him, and knew him not, through the changes of years.  Even your
+father did not know him, though they had been bred up well-nigh as
+brothers.  But mine eyes were sharper.  I had not borne that face in
+mine heart, and seen it in my dreams, for all these years, that I should
+look on him and not know it.  I knew the look in his eyes, the poise of
+his head, the smile on his lips, too well--too well!  I reckon that
+between that day and this, a thousand women may have had that smile upon
+them.  But I thought of the day when I had it--when it was the one light
+of life to me--for I had not then beheld the Light of the World.
+_Milly_, didst thou think me cruel yester-morrow?--cold, and hard, and
+stern?  Ah, men do think a woman so,--and women at times likewise--think
+her words hard, when she has to crush her heart down ere she can speak
+any word at all--think her eyes icy cold, when behind them are a storm
+of passionate tears that must not be shed then, and she has to keep the
+key hard turned lest they burst the door open.  Ah, young maids, you
+look upon me as who should say, that I am an old woman from whom such
+words are strange to you.  They be fit only for a young lass's lips,
+forsooth?  Childre, you wis not yet that the hot love of youth is nought
+to be compared to the yearning love of age,--that the maid that loveth a
+man whom she first met a month since cannot bear the rushlight unto her
+that has shrined him in her heart for thirty years."
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ tarried a moment, and drew a long breath.  Then she saith
+in a voice that was calmer and lower--
+
+"_Anstace_ told me I loved not the _Leonard_ that was, but only he that
+should have been.  But I have prayed God day and night, and I will go on
+yet praying, that the man of my love may be the _Leonard_ that yet shall
+be,--that some day he may turn back to God and me, and remember the true
+heart that poured all that love upon him.  If it be so, let the Lord
+order how, and where, and when.  For if I may know that it is, when I
+come into His presence above, I can finish my journey here without the
+knowledge."
+
+"But it were better to know it, Aunt _Joyce_?" saith _Helen_ tenderly.
+Methinks the tale had stirred her heart very much.
+
+"It were happier, _Nelly_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_ softly.  "God knoweth
+whether it were best.  If it be so, He will give it me.--And now is the
+hardest part of my tale to tell.  For after a while, _Milly_,
+this--_Mary_--came to see what _Leonard_ meant, and methinks she came
+about the same time to the certainty that she loved one who was not
+_Leonard_.  When he had parted from me he sought her, and there was much
+bitterness betwixt them.  At the last she utterly denied him, and shut
+the door betwixt him and her: for the which he never forgave her, but at
+a later time, when in the persecutions under King _Henry_ she came into
+his power, he used her as cruelly as he might then dare to go.  I
+reckon, had it been under _Queen Mary_, he should have been content with
+nought less than her blood.  But it pleased the good Lord to deliver
+her, he getting him entangled in some briars of politics that you should
+little care to hear: and so when she was freed forth of prison, he was
+shut up therein."
+
+"Then, Aunt _Joyce_, is he a _Papist_?" saith _Helen_, of a startled
+fashion.
+
+"Ay, _Nell_, he is a black _Papist_.  When we all came forth of
+_Babylon_, he tarried therein."
+
+"And what came of her you called _Mary_, if it please you, _Aunt_?"
+quoth I.
+
+"She was wed to one that dwelt at a distance from those parts, _Edith_,"
+saith Aunt _Joyce_, in the constrained tone wherein she had begun her
+story.  "And sithence then have I heard at times of _Leonard_, though
+never meeting him,--but alway as of one that was journeying from bad to
+worse--winning hearts and then breaking them.  Since Queen _Elizabeth_
+came in, howbeit, heard I never word of him at all: and I knew not if he
+were in life or no, till I set eyes on his face yesterday."
+
+We were all silent till Aunt _Joyce_ saith gently--
+
+"Well, _Milly_,--should we have been more kinder if we had let thee
+alone to break thine heart, thinkest?"
+
+"It runneth not to a certainty that mine should be broke, because others
+were," mutters _Milly_ stubbornly.
+
+"Thou countest, then, that he which had been false to a thousand maids
+should be true to the one over?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with a pitying
+smile.  "Well, such a thing may be possible,--once in a thousand times.
+Hardly oftener, methinks, my child.  But none is so blind as she that
+will not see.  I must leave the Lord to open thine eyes,--for I wis He
+had to do it for me."
+
+And Aunt _Joyce_ rose up and went away.
+
+"I marvel who it were she called _Mary_," said I.
+
+"Essay not to guess, dear heart," saith _Helen_ quickly.  "'Tis plain
+Aunt _Joyce_ would not have us know."
+
+"Why, she told us, or as good," quoth _Milisent_, in that bitter fashion
+she hath had to-day and yesterday.  "Said she not, at the first, that
+`it were well to get the tale o'er ere _Dulcie_ should come'?  'Tis my
+Lady _Stafford_, of course."
+
+"I am not so sure of that," saith _Helen_, in a low voice: and methought
+she had guessed at some other, but would not say out [Note 1].  "I think
+we were better to go down now."
+
+So down went we all to the great chamber, and there found, with
+_Mother_, Mistress _Lewthwaite_, that was, as was plain to see, in a
+mighty taking [much agitated].
+
+"Dear heart, Lady _Lettice_, but I never looked for this!" she crieth,
+wiping of her eyes with her kerchief.  "I wis we have been less stricter
+than you in breeding up our maids: but to think that one of them should
+bring this like of a misfortune on us!  For _Blanche_ is gone to be
+undone, of that am I sure.  Truth to tell, yonder Sir _Francis Everett_
+so took me with his fine ways and goodly looks and comely apparel and
+well-chosen words,--ay, and my master too--that we never thought to
+caution the maids against him.  Now, it turns out that _Alice_ had some
+glint of what were passing: but she never betrayed _Blanche_, thinking
+it should not be to her honour; and me,--why, I ne'er so much as dreamed
+of any ill in store."
+
+"What name said you?" quoth _Mother_, that was trying to comfort her.
+
+"_Everett_," saith she; "Sir _Francis Everett_, he said his name were,
+of _Woodbridge_, in the county of _Suffolk_, where he hath a great
+estate, and spendeth a thousand pound by the year.  And a well-looked
+man he was, not o'er young, belike, but rare goodly his hair fair and
+his eyen shining grey,--somewhat like to yours, my Lady."
+
+_Helen_ and I looked on each other, and I saw the same thought was in
+both our minds.  And looking then upon _Mother_, I reckoned it had come
+to her likewise.  At _Milisent_ I dared not look, though I saw _Helen_
+glance at her.
+
+"And now," continueth Mistress _Lewthwaite_, "here do I hear that at
+_Grasmere_ Farm he gave out himself to be one Master _Tregarvon_, of
+_Devon_; and up in _Borrowdale_, he hath been playing the gallant to two
+or three maids by the name of Sir _Thomas Brooke_ of _Warwickshire_: and
+the saints know which is his right one.  He's a bad one, Lady _Lettice_!
+And after all, here is your Mistress _Bess_, she saith she is as sure
+as that her name is _Wolvercot_, that no one of all these names is his
+own.  She reckons him to be some young gentleman that she once wist,
+down in the shires,--marry, what said she was his name, now?  I cannot
+just call to mind.  She should ne'er have guessed at him, quoth she, but
+she saw him do somewhat this young man were wont to do, and were
+something singular therein--I mind not what it were.  Dear heart, but
+this fray touching our _Blanche_ hath drove aught else out of mine head!
+But Mistress _Bess_ said _he_ were a bad one, and no mistake."
+
+"Is _Blanche_ gone off with him, Mistress _Lewthwaite_?" saith _Helen_.
+
+"That is right what she is, _Nell_, and ill luck go with her," quoth
+Mistress _Lewthwaite_: "for it will, that know I.  God shall never bless
+no undutiful childre,--of that am I well assured."
+
+"Nay, friend, curse not your own child!" saith _Mother_, with a little
+shudder.
+
+"Eh, poor lass, I never meant to curse her," quoth she: "she'll get
+curse enough from him she's gone withal.  She has made her bed, and she
+must lie on it.  And a jolly hard one it shall be, by my troth!"
+
+Here come Cousin _Bess_ and Aunt _Joyce_ into the chamber, and a deal
+more talk was had of them all: but at the last Mistress _Lewthwaite_
+rose up, and went away.  But just ere she went, saith she to _Milisent_
+and me, that were sat together of one side of the chamber--
+
+"Eh, my maids, but you twain should thank God and your good father and
+mother! for if you had been bred up with less care, this companion,
+whatso his name be, should have essayed to beguile you as I am a
+_Cumberland_ woman.  A pair of comely young lasses like you should have
+been a great catch for him, I reckon."
+
+"Ah, Mistress mine," saith Cousin _Bess_, "when lasses take as much care
+of their own selves as their elders of them, we shall catch larks by the
+sky falling, _I_ reckon."
+
+"You are right, Mistress _Bess_," saith she: and so away hied she.
+
+No sooner was Mistress _Lewthwaite_ gone, than _Mother_ saith,--"_Bess_,
+who didst thou account this man to be?  Mistress _Lewthwaite_ saith thou
+didst guess it to be one thou hadst known down in the shires, but she
+had forgat the name."
+
+I saw Cousin _Bess_ look toward Aunt _Joyce_ with a question in her
+eyes: and if ever I read _English_ in eyes, what _Aunt's_ said
+was,--"Have a care!"  Then Cousin _Bess_ saith, very quiet--
+
+"It was a gentleman in _Oxford_ town, Cousin _Lettice_, that I was wont
+to hear of from our _Nell_ when she dwelt yonder."
+
+"Oh, so?" saith _Mother_: and thus the matter ended.
+
+But at after, in the even, when _Father_ and Aunt _Joyce_ and I were by
+ourselves a little season in the hall, I heard Aunt _Joyce_ say, very
+soft--
+
+"_Aubrey_, didst thou give her the name?"
+
+Methought _Father_ shook his head.
+
+"I dared not, _Joyce_," saith he.  "She was so sore troubled touching--
+the other matter."
+
+"I thought so," quoth _Aunt_.  "Then I will beware that I utter it not."
+
+"But _Edith_ knows," answereth _Father_ in a low voice.
+
+"The maids all know," saith she.  "I did not reckon thou wouldest keep
+it from her."
+
+"I should not, but,"--and _Father_ paused.  "Thou wist, _Joyce_, how she
+setteth her heart on all things."
+
+"I am afeared, _Aubrey_, she shall have to know sooner or later.
+Mistress _Lewthwaite_ did all but utter it to her this morning, only I
+thank God her memory failed her just at the right minute."
+
+"We were better to tell her than that," saith _Father_, and leaned his
+head upon his hand as though he took thought.
+
+Then _Mother_ and _Helen_ came in, and no more was said.
+
+                                      SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE FOURTH.
+I had no time to write yestereven, for we were late abed, it being nigh
+nine o' the clock ere we came up; and all the day too busy.  My Lady
+_Stafford_ and Sir _Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_ did return with
+_Father_--the which I set not down in his right place at my last
+writing,--and yesterday we gat acquaint and showed them the vicinage and
+such like.  As to-morrow, _Mother_ shall carry them to wait on my Lord
+_Dilston_.
+
+Sir _Robert Stafford_ is a personable gentleman, much of _Father's_
+years; his nose something high, yet not greatly so, and his hair and
+beard now turning grey, but have been dark.  Mistress _Martin_ his
+sister (that when _Mother_ wist her was Mistress _Grissel Stafford_) is
+much like to him in her face, but some years the younger of the twain,
+though her hair be the greyer.  My Lady _Stafford_, howbeit, hath not a
+grey hair of her head, and hath more ruddiness of her face than Mistress
+_Martin_, being to my thought the comelier dame of the twain.  _Mother_,
+nathless, saith that Mistress _Grissel_ was wont to be the fairer when
+all were maids, and that she hath wist much trouble, the which hath thus
+consumed her early lovesomeness.  For her husband, Captain _Martin_,
+that was an officer of _Calais_, coming home after that town was lost in
+Queen _Mary's_ time, was attaint of heresy and taken of Bishop _Bonner_,
+he lying long in prison, and should have been brent at the stake had not
+Queen _Mary's_ dying (under God's gracious ordering) saved him
+therefrom.  And all these months was Mistress _Martin_ in dread disease,
+never knowing from one week to another what should be the end thereof.
+And indeed he lived not long after, but two or three years.  Sir _Robert
+Stafford_, on the other part, was a wiser man; for no sooner was it
+right apparent, on Queen _Mary's_ incoming, how matters should turn,
+than he and his dame and their two daughters gat them over seas and
+dwelt in foreign parts all the days that Queen _Mary_ reigned.  And in
+_Dutchland_ [Germany] were both their daughters wedded, the one unto a
+noble of that country, by name the Count of _Rothenthal_, and the other
+unto a priest, an Englishman that took refuge also in those parts, by
+name Master _Francis Digby_, that now hath a living in _Somerset_.
+
+Medoubteth if _Mother_ be told who Sir _Edwin Tregarvon_ were.
+_Milly_ 'bideth yet in the sulks, and when she shall come thereout will
+I not venture to guess.  _Alice Lewthwaite_ come over this afternoon but
+for a moment, on her way to her aunt's, Mistress _Rigg_, and saith no
+word is yet heard of their _Blanche_, whom her father saith he will
+leather while he can lay on if she do return, while her mother is all
+for killing the fatted calf and receiving her back with welcome.
+
+                                           SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE V.
+This morrow we set forth for _Lord's Island_, a goodly company--to wit,
+_Father_, and _Mother_, and Sir _Robert_ and my Lady _Stafford_, and
+Mistress _Martin_, and _Milisent_, and me.  Too many were we for _Adam_
+to row, and thought to take old _Matthias_, had not _Robin Lewthwaite_
+chanced on us the last minute, and craved leave to take an oar, saying
+it should be a jolly pleasance for him to spend the day on _Lord's
+Island_.  So _Father_ took the second oar, and _Adam_ steered, and all
+we got well across, thanks to God.  We landed, _Father_ gave his hand to
+my Lady _Stafford_, and Sir _Robert_ to _Mother_, and _Robin_, pulling a
+face at _Milly_ and me (for I wis well he had liever have been with us),
+his to Mistress _Martin_.
+
+"Well, _Edith_," saith _Milly_, the pleasantest she hath spoken of late,
+"I reckon I must be thy _cavaliero_."
+
+"Will you have my cap, _Milisent_?" saith _Robin_, o'er his shoulder.
+
+"Thanks, I reckon I shall manage without," quoth she.
+
+"Well, have a care you demean yourself as a _cavaliero_ should," saith
+he.  "Tell her she is the fairest maid in all the realm, and you shall
+die o' despair an' you get not a glance from her sweet eyes."
+
+"Nay, I'll leave that for you," saith _Milly_.
+
+"Good.  I will do mine utmost to mind it the next opportunity," quoth
+_Robin_.
+
+So, with mirth, come we up to _Dilston_ Hall.
+
+My Lord was within, said the old serving-man, and so likewise were
+Mistress _Jane_ and Mistress _Cicely_: so he led us across the hall,
+that is set with divers coloured stones, of a fashion they have in
+_Italy_, and into a pleasant chamber, where Mistress _Cicely_ was sat at
+her frame a-work, and rose up right lovingly to welcome us.  Mistress
+_Jane_, said she, was in the garden: but my Lord come in the next
+minute, and was right pleasant unto us after his sad and bashful
+fashion, for never saw I a man like him, as bashful as any maid.  Then
+Mistress _Jane_ come anon, and bare us--to wit, _Milisent_ and me--away
+to her own chamber, where she gave us sweet cakes and muscadel; and
+Mistress _Cicely_ came too.  And a jolly time should we have had, had it
+not come into Mistress _Cicely's_ head to ask at us if it were true that
+_Blanche Lewthwaite_ was gone away with some gallant.  I had need to say
+Ay, for _Milisent_ kept her mouth close shut.
+
+"And who were he?" quoth Mistress _Jane_.  I answered that so far as we
+heard he had passed by divers names, all about this vicinage: but the
+name whereby he had called himself at _Mere Lea_ (which is Master
+_Lewthwaite's_) was _Everett_.
+
+"I warrant you, _Jane_," saith Mistress _Cicely_, "'tis the same
+_Everett_ Farmer _Benson_ was so wroth with, for making up to his
+_Margaret_.  He said if ever he came nigh his house again, he should go
+thence with a bullet more than he brought.  A man past his youth, was
+he, _Edith_, with fair shining hair--no grey in it--and mighty sweet
+spoken?"
+
+"Ay, that is he," said I, "or I mistake, Madam."
+
+"Dear heart, but what an ill one must he be!" quoth Mistress _Jane_.
+"Why he made old _Nanny's_ grand-daughter _Doll_ reckon he meant to wed
+her, and promised to give her a silver chain for her neck this next
+_Sunday_!"
+
+All this while sat _Milisent_ still and spake never a word.  I gat
+discourse turned so soon as ever I might.  Then after a little while
+went we down to hall, and good mirth was had of the young gentlewomen
+with _Robin_ and me: but all the while _Milisent_ very still, so that at
+last Mistress _Cicely_ noted it, and asked her if her head ached.  She
+said ay: and she looked like it.  So, soon after came we thence, and
+crossed the lake again, and so home.  _Milly_ yet very silent all the
+even: not as though she sulked, as of late, but rather as though she
+meditated right sadly.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE VII.
+This morrow, I being in Aunt _Joyce's_ chamber, helping her to lay by
+the new-washed linen, come _Milisent_ in very softly.
+
+"Aunt _Joyce_," she saith, "I would fain have speech of you."
+
+"Shall I give thee leave [go away and leave you], _Milly_?" said I,
+arising, for I was knelt of the floor, before the bottom drawer.
+
+"Nay, _Edith_," she makes answer: "thou knowest my faults, and it is but
+meet thou shouldst hear my confession."
+
+Her voice choked somewhat, and Aunt _Joyce_ saith lovingly, "Dost think,
+then, thou hast been foolish, dear child?"
+
+"I can hardly tell about foolish, _Aunt_," saith she, casting down her
+eyes, "but methinks I have been sinful.  Will you forgive me mine hard
+words and evil deeds?"
+
+"Ay, dear heart, right willingly.  And I shall not gainsay thee,
+_Milly_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sadly: "for `the thought of foolishness is
+sin,' and God calls many a thing sin whereof we men think but too
+lightly.  Yet, bethink thee that `if any man sin, we have an Advocate
+with the Father.'  Now, dear heart, if thou wilt be ruled by me, thou
+wilt `arise and go to thy father' and thy mother, and say to them right
+as did the prodigal, that thou hast sinned against Heaven and in their
+sight.  I think neither of them is so much angered as sorrowful and
+pitying: yet, if there be any anger in them, trust me, that were the way
+to disarm it.  Come back, _Milly_--first to God, and then to them.  Thou
+shalt find fatherly welcome from either."
+
+_Milly_ still hid her face.
+
+"Aunt _Joyce_," she saith, "I dare not say I have come _back_ to God,
+for I have been doubting this morrow if I were ever near Him.  But I
+think I have _come_.  So now I may go to _Father_ and _Mother_."
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ kissed her lovingly, and carried her off.  Of course I know
+not what happed betwixt _Father_ and _Mother_, and _Milly_, but I know
+that _Milly_ looks a deal happier, and yet sadder [graver], than she
+hath done of many days: and that both _Father_ and _Mother_ be very
+tender unto her, as to one that had been lost and is found.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Note 1.  Helen guessed rightly.  As the readers of "Lettice Eden" will
+know, the "Mary" of the tale was her mother.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER SIX.
+
+CHRISTMAS CHEER.
+
+  "Then opened wide the baron's hall
+  To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
+  All hailed with uncontrolled delight,
+  And general voice, the happy night
+  That to the cottage, as the crown,
+  Brought tidings of salvation down."
+
+  Scott.
+
+(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
+
+                                            SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE X.
+Here have I been a-thinking I should scantly write a word when my month
+was come, and already, with but ten days thereof, have I filled half as
+much paper as either _Helen_ or _Milisent_.  But in good sooth, I do
+trust the next ten days shall not be so full of things happening as
+these last.  Nathless, I do love to have things happen, after a fashion:
+but I would have them to be alway pleasant things.  And when things
+happen, they be so oft unpleasant.
+
+Now, if one might order one's own life, methinks it should be a right
+pleasant thing.  For I reckon I should not go a-fooling, like as some
+lasses do.  Mine head is not all stuffed with gallants, nor yet with
+velvet and gold.  But I would love to be great.  Not great like a
+duchess, just a name and no more: but to make a name for myself, and to
+have folks talk of me, how good and how clever I were.  That is what I
+would fain be thought--good and clever.  I take no care to be thought
+fair, nor in high place; howbeit, I desire not to be ugly nor no lower
+down than I am.  But I am quite content with mine own place, only I feel
+within me that I could do great things.
+
+And how can a woman do great things, without she be rare high in place,
+such like as the Queen's Majesty, or my Lady Duchess of _Suffolk_?  Or
+how could I ever look to do great things, here in _Derwent_ dale?  Oh, I
+do envy our _Wat_ and _Ned_, by reason they can go about the world and
+o'er the seas, and make themselves famous.
+
+And, somehow, in a woman's life everything seems so little.  'Tis just
+cooking and eating; washing linen and soiling of it; going to bed and
+rising again.  Always doing things and then undoing them, and alway the
+same things over and over again.  It seems as if nought would ever stay
+done.  If one makes a new gown, 'tis but that it may be worn out, and
+then shall another be wanted.  I would the world could give o'er going
+on, and every thing getting worn out and done with.
+
+Other folks do not seem to feel thus.  I reckon _Helen_ never does, not
+one bit.  Some be so much easier satisfied than other.  I count them the
+happiest.
+
+I cannot tell how it is, but I do never feel satisfied.  'Tis as though
+there were wings within me, that must ever of their nature be stretching
+upward and onward.  Where should they end, an' they might go forward?
+Would there be any end?  Can one be satisfied, ever?
+
+I believe _Anstace_ and _Helen_ are satisfied, but then 'tis their
+nature to be content with things as they be.  I do not know about
+_Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_.  I misdoubt if it be altogether their nature.
+But then neither do they seem always satisfied.  _Father_ doth so: and
+his nature is high enough.  I think I shall ask _Father_.  As for Cousin
+_Bess_, an' I were to ask at her, she should conceive me never a whit.
+'Tis her nature to cook and darn and scour, and to look complacently on
+her cake and her mended hole and her cleaned chamber, and never trouble
+herself to think that they shall lack doing o'er again to-morrow.
+Chambers are like to need cleansing, and what were women made for save
+to keep them clean?  That is Cousin _Bess_, right out.  For Master
+_Stuyvesant_, methinks he is right the other way, and rather counts the
+world a dirty place and full of holes, that there shall be no good in
+neither cleansing nor mending.  And I look not on matters in that light.
+Methinks it were better to cleanse the chamber, if only one could keep
+it from being dirtied at after.  I shall see what _Father_ saith.
+
+                                         SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE XII.
+Yester even, as we were sat in the great chamber,--there was _Mother_
+and _Helen_ at their wheels, and Aunt _Joyce_ and my Lady _Stafford_
+a-sewing, and Mistress _Martin_ and _Milisent_ and me at the broidery,--
+and _Father_ had but just beat Sir _Robert_ in a game of the chess, and
+_Mynheer_, one foot upon his other knee, was deep in a great book which
+thereon rested,--and fresh logs were thrown of the fire by _Kate_, which
+sent forth upward a shower of pleasant sparkles, and methought as I
+glanced around the chamber, that all looked rare pleasant and
+comfortable, and we ought to thank God therefore.  When all had been
+silent a short while, out came I with my question, well-nigh ere I
+myself wist it were out--
+
+"_Father_, are you satisfied?"
+
+"A mighty question, my maid," saith he,--while _Helen_ looked up in
+surprise, and Aunt _Joyce_ and Mistress _Martin_ and _Milisent_ fell
+a-laughing.  "With what?  The past, the present, or the future?" quoth
+_Father_.
+
+"With things, _Father_," said I.  "With life and every thing."
+
+"Ah, _Edith_, hast thou come to that?" saith my Lady _Stafford_: and she
+exchanged smiles with _Mother_.
+
+"_Daughter_," _Father_ makes answer, "methinks no man is ever satisfied
+with life, until he be first satisfied with God.  The furthest he can go
+in that direction, is not to think if he be satisfied or no.  A man may
+be well pleased with lesser things: but to be satisfied, that can he
+not."
+
+"`Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again,'" quoth _Mother_,
+softly.
+
+"Ay," saith Sir _Robert_; "and wit you, Mistress _Edith_, what cometh at
+times to men adrift of the ocean, when all their fresh water is spent?"
+
+"Why, surely, they should find water in plenty in the sea, Sir," said I.
+
+"Right so do they," saith he: "and 'tis a quality of the sea-water, that
+if a man athirst doth once taste the same, his thirst becometh so great
+that he drinketh thereof again and again, the thirst worsening with
+every draught, until at last it drives him mad."
+
+"An apt image of the pleasures of this world," answers _Father_.  "Ah,
+how is all nature as God's picture-book, given to help His dull childer
+over their tasks!"
+
+"But, _Father_,"--said I, and stayed.
+
+"Well, my maid?" he answers of his kindly fashion.
+
+"I cry you mercy, _Father_, if I speak foolishly; but it seems me that
+pious folk be not alway satisfied.  They make as much fume as other folk
+when things go as they would not have them."
+
+"The angels do not so, I reckon," saith _Mynheer_, a-looking up.
+
+"We are not angels yet," quoth _Father_, a little drily.  "Truth, my
+maid: and we ought to repent thereof, seeing such practices but too oft
+cause the enemy to blaspheme, and put stumbling-blocks in the way of
+weak brethren.  Ay, and from what we read in God's Word, it should seem
+as though all murmuring and repining--not sorrowing, mark thou; but
+murmuring--went for far heavier sin in His eyes than it doth commonly in
+ours.  We count it a light matter if we grumble when things go awry, and
+matters do seem as if they were bent on turning forth right as we would
+not have them.  Let us remember, for ourselves, that such displeaseth
+the Lord.  He reckons it unbelief and mistrust.  `How long,' saith He
+unto Moses, `will this people provoke Me? and how long will it be ere
+they believe Me?'  Howbeit, as for our neighbours, we need not judge
+them.  And indeed, such matters depend much on men's complexions [Note
+1], and some find it a deal easier to control them than other.  And
+after all, _Edith_, there is a sense wherein no man can ever be fully
+satisfied in this life.  We were meant to aspire; and if we were
+entirely content with present things, then should we grovel.  To submit
+cheerfully is one thing: to be fully gratified, so that no desire is
+left, is an other.  We shall not be that, methinks, till we reach
+Heaven."
+
+"Shall we so, even there?" saith Sir _Robert_.  "It hath alway seemed to
+me that when _Diogenes_ did define his gods as `they that had no wants,'
+he pointed to a very miserable set of creatures.  Is it not human nature
+that the thing present shall fall short of the thing prospective?"
+
+"The _in posse_ is better than the _in esse_?" saith _Father_.  "Well,
+it should seem so, in this dispensation.  But how, in the next world,
+our powers may be extended, and our souls in some degree suffer change,
+that we can be fully satisfied and yet be alway aspiring--I reckon we
+cannot now understand.  I only gather from Scripture that it shall be
+thus.  You and I know very little, _Robin_, of what shall be in Heaven."
+
+"Ah, true,--true!" saith Sir _Robert_.
+
+"It hath struck me at times," saith _Father_, "that while it may seem
+strange to the young and eager soul, yet it is better understood as one
+grows older,--how the account of Heaven given us in Scripture is nearly
+all in negations.  God and ourselves are the two matters positive.  The
+rest are nays: there shall be no pain, no crying, no sorrow, no night,
+no death, no curse.  And though youth would oft have it all yea, yet nay
+suits age the better.  An old man and weary feels the thought of active
+bliss at times too much for him.  It wearies him to think of perpetual
+singing and constant flying.  It is rest he needs--it is peace."
+
+"Well, _Father_," saith _Milisent_, looking up, "I hope it is not wicked
+of me, but I never did enjoy the prospect of sitting of a cloud and
+singing _Hallelujah_ for ever and ever."
+
+"Right what I was wont to think at thy years, _Milly_," saith _Mother_,
+a-laughing.
+
+"Dear hearts," saith _Father_, "there is in God's Word a word for the
+smallest need of every one of us, if we will only take the pain to
+search and find it there.  `They had no rest day neither night,'
+[Cranmer's version of Revelations chapter four verse 8]--that is for the
+eager, active soul that longs to be up and doing.  And `they rest from
+their labours,'--that is for the weary heart that is too tired for
+rapture."
+
+"Yet doth not that latter class of texts, think you," saith Sir
+_Robert_, "refer mainly to the rest of the body in the grave?"
+
+"Well, it may be so," answers _Father_: "yet, look you, the rest of the
+grave must be something that _will rest us_."
+
+"What is thy notion, _Aubrey_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "of the state of the
+soul betwixt death and resurrection?"
+
+"My notion, _Joyce_," saith _Father_, "is that _Scripture_ giveth us no
+very plain note thereon.  I conclude, therefore, that it shall be time
+to know when we come to it.  This only do I see--that all the passages
+which speak thereof as `sleep,' `forgetfulness,' and the like, be in the
+Old Testament: and all those--nay, let me correct myself--most of those
+which speak thereof as of a condition of conscious bliss, `being with
+_Christ_,' and so, are in the New.  There I find the matter: and there,
+under your good pleasure, will I leave it."
+
+"Well, that should seem," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "as if the condition of
+souls had been altered by the coming of our Lord."
+
+"By His death, rather, as methinks, if so be.  It may be so.  I dare not
+be positive either way."
+
+"Has it never seemed strange to you, _Louvaine_," saith Sir _Robert_,
+"how little we be told in God's Word touching all those mysteries
+whereon men's minds will ever be busying themselves--to all appearance,
+so long as the world lasts?  This matter of our talk--the origin of
+evil--free-will and sovereign grace--and the like.  Why are we told no
+more?"
+
+"Why," saith _Father_, with that twinkle in his eyes which means fun, "I
+am one of the meaner intelligences of the universe, and I wis not.  If
+you can find any whither the Angel _Gabriel_, you may ask at him if he
+can untie your knots."
+
+"Now, _Aubrey_, that is right what mads me!" breaks in Aunt _Joyce_.
+"Sir _Robert_ asks why we be told no more, and thine answer is but to
+repeat that we be told no more.  Do, man, give a plain answer to a plain
+question."
+
+"Nay, now thou aft like old Lawyer _Pearson_?" quoth _Father_.  "`I wis
+not, Master,' saith the witness.  `Ay, but will you swear?' saith he.
+`Why,' quoth the witness, `how can I swear when I wis not?'  `Nay, but
+you must swear one way or an other,' saith he.  Under thy leave,
+_Joyce_, I do decline to swear either way, seeing I wis not."
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ gives a little stamp of her foot.  "What on earth is the
+good of men, when they wit no more than women?" quoth she: whereat all
+laughed.
+
+"Ah, some women have great wits," saith _Father_.
+
+"Give o'er thy mocking, _Aubrey_!" answers she.  "Tell us plain, what
+notion thou hast, and be not so strict tied to chapter and verse."
+
+"Of what worth shall then be my notions?  Well," saith _Father_, "I have
+given them on the one matter.  As for the origin of evil, I find the
+origin of mine evil in mine own heart, and no further can I get except
+to _Satan_."
+
+"Ay, but I would fain reach over _Satan_," saith she.
+
+"That shall we not do without _Satan_ overreaching us," quoth _Father_.
+"Well, then--as to free-will and grace, I find both.  `Whosoever will,
+take of the water of life,'--and `Yet will ye not come unto Me that ye
+might have life.'  But also I find, `No man can come to Me, except the
+Father draw him;' and that faith cometh `Not of yourselves; it is the
+gift of God.'"
+
+"Come, tarry not there!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "How dost thou reconcile
+them?"
+
+"Why, I don't reconcile them," quoth he.
+
+"Ay, but do!" she makes answer.
+
+"Well," saith he, "if thou wilt come and visit me, _Joyce_, an hundred
+years hence, at the sign of the _Burnt-Sacrifice_, in _Amethyst_ Lane,
+in the _New Jerusalem_, I will see if I can do it for thee then."
+
+"_Aubrey Louvaine_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, "thou art--"
+
+"Not yet there," he answers.  "I am fully aware of it."
+
+"The wearifullest tease ever I saw, when it liketh thee!" saith she.
+
+"Dost thou know, _Joyce_," quoth _Mother_, laughing merrily, "I found
+out that afore I was wed.  He did play right cruelly on mine eagerness
+once or twice."
+
+"Good lack! then why didst thou wed him?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+_Mother_ laughed at this, and _Father_ made a merry answer, which turned
+the discourse to other matter, and were not worth to set down.  So we
+gat not back to our sad talk, but all ended with mirth.
+
+This morrow come o'er _Robin Lewthwaite_, with a couple of rare fowl and
+his mother's loving commendations for _Mother_.  He saith nothing is yet
+at all heard of their _Blanche_, and he shook his head right sorrowfully
+when I asked at him if he thought aught should be.  It seemed so strange
+a thing to see _Robin_ sorrowful.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XVI.
+This morrow, my Lady _Stafford_, Aunt _Joyce_, and I, were sat at our
+work alone in the great chamber.  _Milly_ was gone with _Mother_
+a-visiting poor folk, and Sir _Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_, with
+_Helen_ for guide, were away towards _Thirlmere_,--my Lady _Stafford_
+denying to go withal, by reason she had an ill rheum catched yesterday
+amongst the snowy lanes.  All at once, up looks my Lady, and she saith--
+
+"_Joyce_, what is this I heard yestereven of old _Mall Crewdson_,
+touching one _Everett_, or _Tregarvon_--she wist not rightly which his
+name were--that hath done a deal of mischief in these parts of late?
+What manner of mischief?--for old _Mary_ was very mysterious.  May-be I
+do not well to ask afore _Edith_?"
+
+"Ay, _Dulcie_, well enough," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sadly, "for _Edith_
+knows the worst she can already.  And if you knew the worst you could--"
+
+"Why, what is it?" quoth she.
+
+"_Leonard_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, curtly.
+
+"_Leonard_!"  Every drop of blood seemed gone out of my Lady's face.  "I
+thought he was dead, years gone."
+
+"So did not I," Aunt _Joyce_ made low answer.
+
+"No, I wis thou never didst," saith my Lady, tenderly.  "So thy love is
+still alive, _Joyce_?  Poor heart!"
+
+"My heart is," she saith.  "As for love, it is poor stuff if it can
+die."
+
+"There is a deal of poor stuff abroad, then," quoth her Ladyship.  "In
+very deed, so it is.  So he is yet at his old work?"
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ only bent her head.
+
+"Well, it were not possible to wish he had kept to the new," pursueth
+she.  "I do fear there were some brent in _Smithfield_, that had been
+alive at this day but for him.  But ever since Queen _Mary_ died hath he
+kept him so quiet, that in very deed I never now reckoned him amongst
+the living.  Where is he now?"
+
+"God wot," saith Aunt _Joyce_, huskily.
+
+My Lady was silent awhile: and then she saith--
+
+"Well, may-be better so.  But _Joyce_, doth _Lettice_ know?"
+
+"That _Tregarvon_ were he?  Not without _Aubrey_ hath told her these
+last ten days: and her face saith not so."
+
+"No, it doth not," my Lady makes answer.  "But Sir _Aubrey_ wist, then?
+His face is not wont to talk unless he will."
+
+"In no wise," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Ay, _Dulcibel_; I had to tell him."
+
+"Thou?" saith my Lady, pityingly.
+
+"None knew him but me," made she answer, and her voice grew very
+troubled.  "Not even _Aubrey_, nor _Lettice_.  _Bess_ guessed at him
+after awhile, but not till she had seen him divers times.  But for me
+one glimpse was enough."
+
+Aunt _Joyce's_ work was still now.
+
+"Hadst thou surmised aforetime that it were he?"
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ shook her head.
+
+"No need for surmising, _Dulcie_," she said.  "If I were laid in my
+grave for a year and a day, I should know his step upon the mould above
+me."
+
+"My poor _Joyce_!" softly quoth my Lady _Stafford_.  "Even God hath no
+stronger word than `passing the love of women.'  Yet a woman's love
+lasts not out to that in most cases."
+
+"Her heart lasts not out, thou meanest," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Hearts
+are weak, _Dulcie_, but love is immortal."
+
+"And hast thou still hope--for him, _Joyce_?" answereth my Lady.  "I
+lost the last atom of mine, years gone."
+
+"Hope of his ultimate salvation?  Ay--as long as life lasts.  I shall
+give over hoping for it when I see it."
+
+"But," saith my Lady slowly, as though she scarce liked to say the same,
+"how if thou never wert to see it?"
+
+  "`Between the stirrup and the ground,
+  Mercy I sought, mercy I found.'
+
+"Thou wist that epitaph, _Dulcie_, on him that lost life by a fall from
+the saddle.  My seeing it were comfort, but no necessity.  I could go on
+hoping that God had seen it."
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ arose and left the chamber.  Then saith my Lady _Stafford_
+to me--
+
+"There goes a strong soul.  There be women such as she: but they are not
+to be picked, like blackberries, off every bramble.  _Edith_, young
+folks are apt to think love a mere matter of youth and of matrimony.
+They cannot make a deeper blunder.  The longer love lasts, the stronger
+it groweth."
+
+"Always, my Lady?" said I.
+
+"Ay," saith she.  "That is, if it be love."
+
+We wrought a while without more talk: when suddenly saith my Lady
+_Stafford_:--
+
+"_Edith_, didst thou see this _Tregarvon_, or how he called himself?"
+
+"Ay, Madam," said I.  "He made up to me one morrow, when my sister
+_Milisent_ and I were on Saint _Hubert's_ Isle in the mere yonder, and I
+was sat, a-drawing, of a stone."
+
+"Ay so?" quoth she, with some earnestness in her voice.  "And what
+then?"
+
+"I think he took not much of me, Madam," said I.
+
+My Lady _Stafford_ smiled, yet methought somewhat pensively.
+
+"May I wit what he said to thee, _Edith_?"
+
+"Oh, a parcel of stuff touching mine hair and mine eyes, and the like,"
+said I.  "I knew well enough what colours mine hair and eyes were of,
+without his telling me.  Could I dress mine hair every morrow afore the
+mirror, and not see?"
+
+"Well, _Edith_," saith she, "methinks he did not take much of thee.  I
+would I could have seen him,"--and her voice grew sadder.  "Not that my
+voice should have had any potency with him: that had it never yet.  But
+I would fain have noted how far the years had changed him, and if--if
+there seemed any more hope of his amendment than of old time.  There was
+a time when in all _Oxfordshire_ he was allowed the goodliest man, and I
+fear he was not far from being likewise the worst."
+
+Here come in _Mother_, and my Lady _Stafford_ changed the discourse
+right quickly.  I saw I must say no more.  But I am well assured Aunt
+_Joyce's Mary_ was never my Lady _Stafford_.  Who methinks it were it
+should serve no good end to set down.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XIX.
+As we sat this even of the great chamber, saith _Father_:--
+
+"_Stafford_, do you remember our talk some days gone, touching what
+manner of life there should be in Heaven?"
+
+"That do I well," Sir _Robert_ made answer.
+
+"Well," quoth _Father_, "I have fallen to think more thereupon.  And the
+thought comes to me--wherefore account we always that we shall do but
+one thing there, and that all shall do the same?  Here is _Milisent_--
+ay, and _Lettice_ too--that think they should be weary to sit of a cloud
+and sing for ever and ever."
+
+"Truly, so should I, methinks," saith Sir _Robert_.
+
+"So should we all, I cast no doubt," answers _Father_, "if our capacity
+for fatigue did extend into that life.  But why expect the same thing
+over and over?  It is not so on earth.  I am not reading, nor is
+_Lettice_ sewing, nor _Milisent_ broidering, with no intermission, from
+the morning to the night.  Neither do we all the same fashion of work."
+
+"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, somewhat eagerly; "but the work done here
+below is needful, _Aubrey_.  There shall be no necessity for nought
+there."
+
+"Art avised o' that, _Joyce_?" saith _Father_.
+
+"Why," saith she, "dost look for brooms and dusters in Heaven?  Shall
+_Bess_ and I sweep out the gold streets, thinkest, or fetch a pan to
+seethe the fruits of the Tree of Life?"
+
+"One would think," saith Sir _Robert_, "if all be allegorical, as some
+wise doctors do say, that they should be shadowy brooms that swept
+parabolical streets."
+
+"Allegorical fiddlesticks!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_.  "I did never walk yet
+o'er a parabolical paving, nor sat me down to rest me of an allegorical
+chair.  Am I to be allegorical, forsooth?  You be a poor comforter, Sir
+_Robert_."
+
+"Soft you now!" saith _Father_.  "I enter a _caveat_, as lawyers have
+it.  Methinks I have walked for some years o'er a parabolical paving,
+and rested me in many an allegorical chair.  Thou minglest somewhat too
+much the spiritual and the material, _Joyce_."
+
+"I count I take thee, _Audrey_," saith she: "thou wouldst say that the
+allegorical city is for the dwelling of the spirit, and the real for the
+body.  But, pray you, if my spirit have a dwelling in thine allegorical
+city--"
+
+"Nay, I said not the city were allegorical," quoth he.  "Burden not me
+withal, for in truth I do believe it very real."
+
+"No, that was Sir _Robert_," saith she, "so I will ask at him, as shall
+be but fair.  Where, I pray you, is my body to be, Sir, whilst my soul
+dwelleth in your parabolical city?"
+
+"There shall be a spiritual body, my mistress," makes he answer,
+smiling.
+
+"Truth," quoth she, "but I reckon it must be somewhere.  It seems me, to
+my small wit, that if my soul and my spiritual body be to dwell in an
+allegorical city, then I must needs be allegorical also.  And I warrant
+you, that should not like me a whit."
+
+"Let us not mingle differences," saith _Father_.  "Be the spiritual and
+the allegorical but one thing?"
+
+"Nay, I believe there be two," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "'tis Sir _Robert_
+here would have them alike."
+
+"But how would you define them?" saith Sir _Robert_ to _Father_.
+
+"Thus," he made answer.  "The spiritual is that which is real, as fully
+as the material: but it is invisible.  The allegorical is that which is
+shadowy and doth but exist in the fantasy.  If I say of these my
+daughters, they be my jewels, I speak allegorically: for they be not
+gems, but maidens.  But I do not love them in an allegory, but in
+reality.  Love is a moral and spiritual matter, but no allegory.  So,
+Heaven is a spiritual place, but methinks not an allegorical one."
+
+"But the _New Jerusalem_--the Golden City which lieth four-square--that
+is allegorical, surely!"
+
+"We shall see when we are there," saith _Father_.  "I think not."
+
+Sir _Robert_ pursed up his lips as though he could no wise allow the
+same.
+
+"Mind you, _Robin_," saith _Father_, "I say not that there may not be
+allegory touching some of the details.  I reckon the pearls of the
+twelve gates were never found in earthly oysters: nor do I account that
+the gold of the streets was molten in an earthly furnace.  No more, when
+_Edith_ saith she will run and fetch a thing, should I think to accuse
+her of falsehood if I saw that she walked, and ran not.  'Tis never well
+to fetch a parable down on all fours.  You and I use allegory always in
+our common talk."
+
+"Ay," quoth Sir _Robert_: "but you reckon they _be_ pearls, and gold?"
+
+"I will tell you when I have seen them," saith _Father_, and smiled.
+"Either they be gold and pearls, or they be that to which, in our
+earthly minds, gold and pearls come the nearest.  Why, my friend, we be
+all but lisping children to God.  Think you one moment, and tell me if
+every word we use touching Him hath not in it more or less of parable?
+We call Him Father, and King, and Master, and Guide, and Lord.  Is not
+every one of these taken from earthly relationships, and doth it not
+presuppose a something which is to be found on earth?  We have no better
+wits than to do so here.  If God would teach us that we know not, it
+must be by talking to us touching things we do know.  Did not you the
+same with your children when they were babes?  How far we may be able to
+penetrate, when we be truly men, grown up unto the measure of the
+stature of the fulness of _Christ_, verily I cannot tell.  Only I do see
+that not only all _Scripture_, but all analogy, pointeth to a time when
+we shall emerge from this caterpillar state, and spread our wings as
+butterflies in the sunshine.  Nay, there is yet a better image in
+nature.  The grub of the dragon-fly dwelleth in the waters, and cannot
+live in the air till it come forth into the final state.  Tell me then,
+I pray you, how shall this water-grub conceive the notion of flying
+through the air?  Supposing you able to talk with him, could you
+represent the same unto him other than by the conceit of gliding through
+water with most delightsome swiftness and directness?  To talk of an
+element wherein he had no experience should be simply so much nonsense
+to him.  Now, it may be--take me not, I pray you, as meaning it must
+be--that all that shall be found in Heaven differs as greatly from what
+is found on earth as the water differs from the air.  Concerning these
+matters, I take it, God teaches us by likening them to such things as we
+know that shall give the best conceit of them to our minds.  Here on
+earth, the fairest and most costly matter is gold and gems.  Well, He
+would have us know that the heavenly city is builded of the fairest and
+most precious matter.  But that the matter is real, and that the city is
+builded of somewhat, that will I yield to none.  To do other were to
+make it a fairy tale, Heaven in cloud-land, and God Himself but the
+shadow of a dream.  The only difference I can see is, that we should
+never awake from the dream, but should go on dreaming it for ever."
+
+"O _Louvaine_!" saith Sir _Robert_.  "I can never allow of matter in
+Heaven.  All there is spiritual."
+
+"Now, what mean you by matter?" saith _Father_.  "Matter is a term of
+this world.  I argue not for matter in Heaven as opposed to spirit, but
+for reality as opposed to allegory."
+
+"You'll be out of my depth next plunge," saith Sir _Robert_, merrily.
+
+"We shall both be out of our depth, _Robin_, ere long, and under your
+leave there will we leave it.  But I see you are a bit of a _Manichee_."
+
+"That is out of my depth, at any rate," quoth he.  "I am but ill read in
+ancient controversies, though I know you dabble in them."
+
+"Why, I have dipped my fingers into a good parcel of matters in my
+time," saith _Father_.  "But the _Manichees_, old friend, were men that
+did maintain the inherent evil of matter.  All things, with them, were
+wicked that had to do therewith.  Wherein, though they knew it not, they
+were much akin to the _Indian_ mystics of _Buddha_, that do set their
+whole happiness in the attaining of _Nirvana_."
+
+"What is that?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Is it an _India_ goddess, or
+something good to eat?"
+
+"It is," quoth _Father_, "the condition of having no ideas."
+
+"Good lack!" saith she, "then daft _Madge_ is nearest perfection of us
+all."
+
+"Perhaps she is, in sober truth," _Father_ makes answer.
+
+"Meseemeth," whispers _Milisent_ to me, "that _Jack Benn_ is a
+_Manichee_."
+
+"'Tis strange," saith _Father_, as in meditation, "how those old
+heresies shall be continually re-born under new names: nor only that,
+but how in the heart of every man and woman there is by nature a leaning
+unto some form of heresy.  Here is _Robin Stafford_ a _Manichee_: and
+_Bess_ a _Mennonite_: and my Lady _Stafford_ (if I mistake not) a
+_Stoic_: and _Mynheer_ somewhat given to be a _Cynic_: and _Lettice_ and
+_Milisent_, methinks, are by their nature _Epicureans_.  Mistress
+_Martin_, it seemeth me, should be an _Essene_: and what shall we call
+thee, _Edith_?"
+
+"Aught but a _Pharisee_, _Father_," said I, laughing.
+
+"Nay, thou art no _Pharisee_," saith he.  "But that they were a nation
+and not a sect, I should write thee down a _Sybarite_.  _Nell_ is as
+near a _Pharisee_ as we have one in the chamber; yet methinketh it were
+to insult her to give her such a name."
+
+"Go on," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "I'm waiting."
+
+"What, for thine own class?"
+
+"Mine and thine," saith she.
+
+_Father's_ eyes did shine with fun.  "Well, _Joyce_, to tell truth, I am
+somewhat puzzled to class thee: but I am disposed to put thee amongst
+the _Brownists_."
+
+"What on earth for?" saith she.
+
+"Why," quoth he, "because thou hast a mighty notion of having things
+thine own way."
+
+"Sir _Robert_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "pray you, box my cousin's ears for
+me, as you sit convenient.--And what art thou thine own self, thou
+caitiff?"
+
+"A _Bonus Homo_," answers _Father_, right sadly: whereat all that did
+know _Latin_ fell a-laughing.  And I, asking at my Lady _Stafford_, she
+told me that _Bonus Homo_ is to say Good Man, and was in past time the
+name of a certain Order of friars, that had carried down the truth of
+the Gospel from the first ages in a certain part lying betwixt _Italy_
+and _France_.
+
+"_Nell_," saith _Father_, "I did thee wrong to call thee a _Pharisee_:
+thou art rather a _Herodian_."
+
+"But I pray you, Sir _Aubrey_, what did you mean by the name you gave
+me?" saith Mistress _Martin_.  "For I would fain wit my faults, that I
+may go about to amend them: and as at this present I am none the wiser."
+
+"The _Essenes_," saith he, "Mistress _Martin_, were a sect of the Jews,
+so extreme orthodox that they did deny to perform sacrifice or worship
+in the Temple, seeing there they should have to mingle themselves with
+other sects, and with wicked men that brought not their sacrifices
+rightly.  Moreover, they would neither eat flesh-meat nor drink wine:
+and they believed not that there were so much as one good woman in the
+whole world."
+
+"Then I cry you mercy, Sir _Aubrey_," quoth she, "but if so be,
+assuredly I am not of them.  I do most heartily believe in good women,
+whereof methinks I can see four afore me, at the very least, this
+instant moment: nor have I yet abjured neither wine nor flesh-meat."
+
+"Oh no, the details be different," saith he: "yet I dare be bold to say,
+you have a conceit of a perfect Church, whereinto no untrue man should
+ever be suffered to enter."
+
+"Ay, that have I," said she.  "Methinks the Church of _England_ is too
+comprehensive, and should be drawn on stricter lines."
+
+"And therein are you an _Essene_," answereth _Father_.
+
+"Oh, _Grissel_ would fain have every man close examined," saith Sir
+_Robert_, "and only admitted unto the Lord's Supper by the clergy after
+right strict dealing."
+
+"Were you alway of this manner of thought, Mistress _Martin_?" asks
+_Father_.
+
+"I trow not," said she.  "As one gets on in life, you see, one doth
+perceive many difficulties and differences that one noted not
+aforetime."
+
+"One is more apt to fall into ruts, that I know," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "I
+had ado enough, and yet have, to keep me out of them."
+
+"A man is apt to do one of two things," saith _Father_: "either to fall
+into a rut, or to leave the road altogether.  Either his charity
+contracteth, and he can see none right that walk not in his rut; or else
+his charity breaketh all bounds, and he would have all to be right,
+which way soever they walk."
+
+"Why, those be the two ends of the pole," quoth Sir _Robert_, "and, I
+warrant you, you shall find _Grissel_ right at the end, which so it be.
+She hath a conceit that a man cannot be too right, nor that, if a thing
+be good, you cannot have too much thereof."
+
+"Ah, that hangeth on the thing," saith _Father_.  "You cannot have too
+much faith nor charity, but you may get too much syllabub.  Methinks
+that is scantly the true rendering thereof.  Have not the proportions
+much to do withal?  If a man's faith outrun his charity, behold him at
+the one end of your pole; but if his charity outrun his faith, here is
+he at the other.  Now faith and charity should keep pace.  Let either
+get afore the other, and the man is no longer a perfect man; but a man
+with one limb grown out, and another shrivelled up."
+
+"But, Sir _Aubrey_," quoth Mistress _Martin_, "can a man be too holy, or
+too happy?"
+
+"Surely not, Mistress _Martin_," saith he.  "But look you, God is the
+fountain and pattern of both: and in Him all attributes are at once in
+utmost perfection, and in strictest proportion.  We sons of _Adam_,
+since his fall, be gone out of proportion.  And note you, for it is
+worthy note--that nothing short of revelation did ever yet conceive of a
+perfect God.  The gods of the heathen were altogether such as
+themselves.  Even very _Christians_, with revelation to guide them, are
+ever starting aside like a broken bow in their conceits of God.  Either
+they would have Him all justice and no mercy, or else all mercy and no
+justice: and the looser they hold by the revelation God has made of
+Himself, the dimmer and the more out of proportion be their thoughts of
+God.  The most men frame a God unto themselves, and be assured that he
+shall be like themselves--that the sins which he holds in abhorrence
+shall be the sins whereto they are not prone."
+
+"Are we not, in fine," saith Sir _Robert_, "so far gone from original
+righteousness, that our imperfect nature hath lost power to imagine
+perfection?"
+
+"Not a doubt thereof," saith _Father_.  "Look you but abroad in the
+world.  You shall find pride lauded and called high spirit and
+nobleness: covetousness is prudence and good thrift: flattery and
+conformity to the world are good nature and kindliness.  Every blast
+from Hell hath been renamed after one of the breezes of Heaven."
+
+There was silence so long after this that I reckoned the discourse were
+o'er.  When all suddenly saith Sir _Robert_:--
+
+"_Louvaine_, have you much hope for the future--whether of the Church or
+of the world?"
+
+"All hope in God: none out of Him."
+
+"Nay, come closer," saith Sir _Robert_.  "What shall hap in the next few
+reigns?"
+
+"`I will overturn, overturn, overturn, until He come whose right it is:
+and I will give it Him.'  There is our pole-star, _Robin_: and I see no
+other stars.  `This same _Jesus_ shall so come.'  `Even so, come, Lord
+_Jesus_!'"
+
+"Yet may He not be said to `come' by the Spirit shed abroad in the
+hearts of men, and so the world be regenerated?"
+
+"Find that in God's Word, _Robin_, afore He comes, and I will welcome it
+with all my heart," answers _Father_.  "I could never see it there.  I
+see there a mighty spread of knowledge, and civility [civilisation], and
+communications of men--as hath been since the invention of printing, and
+may be destined to spread yet much further abroad.  But knowledge is not
+faith, nor is civility _Christianity_.  And, in fine, He is to come as
+He went.  He did not go invisibly in the hearts of men."
+
+"But `the kingdom of God is within you.'"
+
+"Ay, in the sense wherein the word is there used.  The power of
+_Christ_, at that time, was to be a power over men's hearts, not an
+outward show of regality: but `He shall so come in like manner as ye
+have seen Him go,' is a very different matter."
+
+"Oh, of course we look for our Lord's advent in His own person," quoth
+Sir _Robert_: "but I cannot think He will come to a sin-stained earth.
+It were not suitable to His dignity.  The way of the Lord must be
+prepared."
+
+"We shall see, when He comes," gently answereth _Father_.  "But if He
+_had_ not deigned to come to a sin-stained earth, what should have come
+either of _Robin Stafford_ or of _Aubrey Louvaine_?"
+
+                                        SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER YE XXIII.
+Four nights hath it taken me to write that last piece, for all the days
+have we been right busy making ready for _Christmas_.  There be in the
+buttery now thirty great spice-cakes, and an hundred mince pies, and a
+mighty bowl of plum-porridge [plum-pudding without the cloth] ready for
+the boiling, and four barons of beef, and a great sight of carrots and
+winter greens, and two great cheeses, and a parcel of sugar-candy for
+the childre, and store of sherris-sack and claret, and _Rhenish_ wine,
+and muscadel.  As to the barrels of ale, and the raisins of _Corance_
+[currants] and the apples, and the conserves and codiniac [quince
+marmalade], and such like, I will not tarry to count them.  And to-day,
+and yet again it shall be to-morrow, have _Mother_ and Aunt _Joyce_, and
+we three maids, trudged all the vicinage, bidding our neighbours to the
+Hall on _Christmas_ Eve and for the even of _Christmas_ Day.  And as
+to-night am I well aweary, for _Thirlmere_ side fell to my share, and I
+was this morrow as far as old _Madge's_ bidding her and young _Madge_,
+and that is six miles well reckoned.  _Father_ saith alway that though
+it be our duty at all times, yet is it more specially at _Christmas_, to
+bid the poor, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind: so we have
+them alway of _Christmas_ night, and of _Christmas_ Eve have we a
+somewhat selecter gathering, of our own kin and close friends and such
+like: only Master _Banaster_ and _Anstace_ come both times.  Then on New
+Year's Day have we alway a great sort of childre, and merry games and
+music and such like.  But the last night of the old year will _Father_
+have no gatherings nor merrymaking.  He saith 'tis a right solemn time;
+and as each one of us came to the age of fourteen years have we parted
+at nine o' the clock as usual, but not on that night for bed.  Every one
+sitteth by him or herself in a separate chamber, with a Bible or some
+portion thereof open afore.  There do we read and pray and meditate
+until half-past eleven, at which time all we gather in the great
+chamber.  Then _Father_ reads first the 139th _Psalm_, and then that
+piece in the _Revelation_ touching all the dead standing afore God: and
+he prayeth a while, until about five minutes afore the year end.  Then
+all gather in the great window toward _Keswick_, and tarry as still as
+death until Master _Cridge_ ring the great bell on _Lord_ Island, so
+soon as he hear the chimes of _Keswick_ Church.  Then, no sooner hath
+the bell died away, which telleth to all around that the New Year is
+born, then _Father_ striketh up, and all we join in, the 100th _Psalm_--
+to wit, "All people that on earth do dwell."
+
+And when the last note of the _Amen_ dieth, then we kiss one another,
+and each wisheth the other a happy new year and God's blessing therein:
+and so away to bed.
+
+I reckon I shall not have no time to write again until _Christmas_ Day
+is well over.
+
+"_Father_," said I last night to him--we were us two alone that
+minute--"_Father_, do you love _Christmas_?"
+
+He looked on me and smiled.
+
+"I love to see my childre glad, dear maid," saith he: "and I love to
+feast my poor neighbours, that at other times get little feasting
+enough.  But _Christmas_ is the childre's festival, _Edith_: for it is
+the festival of untroubled hearts and eyes that have no tears behind
+them.  For the weary hearts and the tearful eyes the true feast is
+_Easter_.  The one is a hope: the other is a victory.  There are no
+clouds o'er the blue sky in the first: the storm is over, and the sun is
+out again, in the last.  `We believe in the resurrection of the dead,
+and the life of the world to come.'  But we are apt to believe in the
+resurrection the most truly when the grave hath been lately open: and
+the life of the world to come is the gladdest thought to them for whom
+the life of the world that is seems not much to live for."
+
+                                      SELWICK HALL, DECEMBER THE XXVIII.
+"Well, _Edith_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_ to me last night, "thou hast had a
+rare time of it!"
+
+"I have, _Aunt_," said I: "yet I warrant you, I was not sorry to have
+_Sunday_ come at after."
+
+Eh, but I was weary when I gat me abed on _Christmas_ night, and it were
+ten o'clock well told ere I so did.  _Helen_ and _Milisent_ were later
+yet: but _Mother_ packed me off, saying that growing maids should not
+tarry up late: and when I found me withinside the blankets, I warrant
+you, but I was thankful!
+
+I reckon, being now something rested, I must set down all that we did:
+and first for _Christmas_ Eve.
+
+_Hal_ and _Anstace_ came early (their childre were bidden to _Keswick_
+unto a childre's gathering): then about three o' the clock, Master and
+Mistress _Lewthwaite_, with _Alice, Nym, Jack_, and _Robin_ (and by the
+same token, _Nym_ played the despairing gallant that I could not choose
+but laugh, his hat awry and his ruff all o' one side, and a bombasted
+[padded] doublet that made him look twice his own size).  And methought
+it a sore pity to miss _Blanche_, that was wont to be merriest of us all
+(when as she were in a good humour) and so _Alice_ said unto me, while
+the water stood in her eyes.  A little while after come Doctor and
+Mistress _Meade_, and their _Isabel_: then old Mistress _Rigg_, and her
+three tall daughters, Mrs _Martha_, Mrs _Katherine_, and Mrs _Anne_:
+then Farmer _Benson_ and his dame, and their _Margaret_ and _Agnes_; and
+Master _Coward_, with their _Tom_ and _Susan_; and Master and Mistress
+_Armstrong_, with their _Ben_, _Nicholas_, and _Gillian_.  Last of all
+come Master _Park_ and Master _Murthwaite_, both together, and their
+mistresses, with the young folk,--_Hugh_ and _Austin Park_, and
+_Dudley_, _Faith_, and _Temperance Murthwaite_.  So our four-and-thirty
+guests, with ourselves, thirteen, made in all a goodly company of
+forty-seven.
+
+First, when all were come in and had doffed their out-door raiment, and
+greeting over, we sat us down to supper: where one of the barons of
+beef, and plum-porridge, and apple-pies, and chicken-pies, and syllabub,
+and all manner of good things: but in very deed I might scarce eat my
+supper for laughing at _Nym Lewthwaite_, that was sat right over against
+me, and did scarce taste aught, but spent the time in gazing
+lack-a-daisically on our _Helen_, and fetching great sighs with his hand
+laid of his heart.  Supper o'er, we first had snap-dragon, then hot
+cockles, then blindman's buff, then hunt the weasel.  We pausing to take
+breath at after, _Father_ called us to sing; so we gathered all in the
+great chamber, and first _Mynheer_ sang a _Dutch_ song, and then Sir
+_Robert_ and Mistress _Martin_ a rare part-song, touching the beauties
+of spring-time.  Then sang Farmer _Benson_, Master _Armstrong_, and
+_Ben_ and _Agnes_, "The hunt is up," which was delightsome to hear.
+Then Aunt _Joyce_ would sing "Pastime with good company," and would
+needs have _Milisent_ and me and _Robin Lewthwaite_ to help her.  After
+this _Jack Lewthwaite_ and _Nick Armstrong_ made us to laugh well, by
+singing "The cramp is in my purse full sore."  The music ended with a
+sweet glee of _Faith_ and _Temperance Murthwaite_ (something sober, but
+I know it liked _Father_ none the worse) and the old _English_ song of
+"Summer is ycumen in," sung of _Father_ and Sir _Robert_, our _Helen_,
+and _Isabel Meade_.  Then we sat around the fire till rear-supper, and
+had "Questions and Commands," and cried forfeits, and wound up with "I
+love my love."  And some were rare witty and mirthful in that last,
+particularly Sir _Robert_, who did treat his love to oranges and
+orfevery in the _Orcades_ [Hebrides] (and _Father_ said he marvelled how
+he gat them there), and Aunt _Joyce_, who said her love was _Benjamin
+Breakrope_, and he came from the Tower of _Babel_.  Then, after that,
+fell we a-telling stories: and a right brave one of _Father_, out of one
+of his old Chronicles, how Queen _Philippa_ gat a pardon from her lord
+for the six gentlemen of _Calais_: and a merry, of Dr _Meade_, touching
+King _John_ and the Abbot of _Canterbury_, and the three questions that
+the King did ask at the Abbot's gardener (he playing his master), and
+the witty answers he made unto him.  Then would Master _Armstrong_ tell
+a tale; and an awesome ghost-story it were, that made my flesh creep,
+and _Milisent_ whispered in mine ear that she should sleep never a wink
+at after it.
+
+"Eh!" saith Farmer _Benson_, and fetched an heavy sigh: "ghosts be ill
+matter of an house."
+
+"Saw you e'er a ghost, Farmer _Benson_?" saith _Dudley Murthwaite_.
+
+"Nay, lad," quoth he: "I've had too much good daylight work in my time
+to lie awake a-seeing ghosts when night cometh."
+
+"Ah, but I've seen a ghost," saith _Austin Park_.
+
+"Oh, where?" cried a dozen together.
+
+"Why, it was but night afore last," saith he, "up by the old white-thorn
+that was strake of the lightning, come two years last Midsummer, just at
+yon reach o' the lake that comes up higher than the rest."
+
+"Ay, ay," saith Farmer _Benson_: "and what like were it, Master
+_Austin_?"
+
+"A woman all in white, with her head cut off," quoth he.
+
+"Said she aught to thee?"
+
+"Nay, I gave her no chance; I took to my heels," quoth he.
+
+"Now, _Austin_, that should I ne'er have done," saith Aunt _Joyce_, who
+believes in ghosts never a whit.  "I would have stood my ground, for I
+did never yet behold a ghost, and would dearly love to do it: and do but
+think how curious it should be to find out what she spake withal, that
+had her head cut off."
+
+"Mistress _Joyce_, had you found you, as I did, close to a blasted tree,
+and been met of a white woman with no head, I'll lay you aught you will
+you'd never have run no faster," saith _Austin_ in an injured tone.
+
+"That should I _not_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_ boldly.  "I shall win my
+fortune at that game, _Austin_, if thou deny not thy debts of honour.
+Why, man o' life, what harm should a blasted tree do me?  Had the
+lightning struck it that minute while I stood there, then might there
+have been some danger: but because the lightning struck it two years
+gone, how should it hurt me now?  And as to a woman with no head, that
+would I tarry to believe till I had stripped off her white sheet and
+seen for myself."
+
+"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_," cries old Mistress _Rigg_, "but sure you should
+never dare to touch a ghost?"
+
+"There be not many things, save sin, Mistress _Rigg_, that I should not
+dare to do an' it liked me.  I have run after a thief with a poker: ay,
+and I have handled a Popish catchpoll, in Queen _Mary's_ days, that he
+never came near my house no more.  And wherefore, I pray you tell me,
+should I be more feared of a spirit without a body than of a spirit
+within the body?--_Austin_, if thou meet the ghost again, prithee bid
+her come up to _Selwick_ Hall and ask for _Joyce Morrell_, for I would
+give forty shillings to have a good talk with her.  Only think, how much
+a ghost could tell a body!"
+
+"Lack-a-day, Mistress _Joyce_, I'll neither make nor meddle with her!"
+cries _Austin_.
+
+"Poor weak soul!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  Whereat many laughed.
+
+So, after a while, sat we down to rear-supper; and at after that,
+gathered in small groups, twos and threes and the like, and talked: and
+I with _Isabel Meade_, and _Temperance Murthwaite_, and _Austin Park_,
+had some rare merriment touching divers matters.  When all at once I
+heard Aunt _Joyce_ say--
+
+"Well, but what ill were there in asking questions of spirits, if they
+might visit the earth?"
+
+"The ill for which _Adam_ was turned forth of _Eden_," saith _Father_:
+"disobedience to a plain command of God.  Look in the xviii chapter of
+_Deuteronomy_, and you shall see necromancy forbidden by name.  That is,
+communication with such as be dead."
+
+"But that were for religion, Sir _Aubrey_," saith Master _Coward_.
+"This, look you, were but matter of curiousness."
+
+"That is to say, it was _Eva's_ sin rather than _Adam's_," _Father_
+makes answer.  "Surely, that which is forbid as solemn matter of
+religion, should be rather forbid as mere matter of curiousness."
+
+"But was that aught more than a ceremonial law of the _Jews_, no longer
+binding upon _Christians_?" saith Sir _Robert_.
+
+"Nay, then, turn you to _Paul's_ Epistle to _Timothy_," quoth _Father_,
+"where among the doctrines taught by them that shall depart from the
+faith, he doth enumerate `doctrines of devils,'--or, as the _Greek_ hath
+it, of demons.  Now these demons were but dead men, whom the _Pagans_
+held to be go-betweens for living men with their gods.  So this, see
+you, is a two-edged sword, forbidding all communication with the dead,
+whether as saints to be invoked, or as visitants to be questioned."
+
+"Nobody's like to question 'em save Mistress _Joyce_," saith Farmer
+_Benson_, of his husky voice, which alway soundeth as though he should
+have an ill rheum of his throat.
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ laughed.  "Nay, I were but joking," quoth she: "but I
+warrant you, if I meet _Austin's_ white woman without a head, I'll see
+if she be ghost or no."
+
+"But what think you, Sir _Aubrey_--wherefore was such communication
+forbid?" saith Master _Murthwaite_.
+
+"God wot," saith _Father_.  "I am not of His council-chamber.  My
+Master's plain word is enough for me."
+
+"One might think that a warning from beyond the grave should have so
+solemn an effect on a sinner."
+
+"Nay, we be told right contrary.  `If they hear not _Moses_ and the
+prophets, neither will they believe though one rise from death again.'
+How much rather when One hath risen from the dead, and they have refused
+to hear Him?"
+
+Then arose Dr _Meade_, that was discoursing with _Mynheer_ of a corner,
+and prayers were had.  After which a grace-cup, and then all took their
+leave, Master _Park_ being last to go as to come.  And just ere he was
+through the door, saith _Austin_ to Aunt _Joyce_, a-laughing--
+
+"You'll mind to let me know, Mistress _Joyce_, what the ghost saith to
+you.  I can stand it second-hand, may-be."
+
+"That's a jolly hearing, from one of the stronger sex to one of the
+weaker!" quoth she.  "Well said, thou mocking companion: I will give
+thee to wit--a piece of my mind, if no more."
+
+_Christmas-Day_, of course, all to church: and in the even sat down to
+supper seventy-six, all but ourselves poor men and women and childre.
+And two of the barons of beef, and six bowls of plum-porridge, and one
+hundred pies of divers kinds,--to say nought of lesser dishes, that
+_Milly_ counted up to eighty.  Then after, snap-dragon, whereat was much
+mirth; and singing of _Christmas_ carols, and games with the childre.
+And all away looking mighty pleased.
+
+Daft _Madge_ would know of me if the angels lived o' plum-porridge.  I
+told her I thought not so.
+
+"It is like to be somewhat rare good," quoth she.  "The Lord's so rich,
+look you,--main richer nor Sir _Aubrey_.  If t' servant gives poor folk
+plum-porridge, what'll t' Master give?"
+
+_Father_ answered her, for he was close by--
+
+"`Fat things full of marrow, wines on the lees well refined.'"
+
+"Eh, that sounds good!" saith she, a-licking of her lips.  "And that's
+for t' hungry folk, Master?"
+
+"It is only for hungry folk," saith he.  "'Tis not thrown away on the
+full ones.  `Whosoever will, take,' saith the Lord, who gives the
+feast."
+
+"Eh, then I shall get some!" saith she, a-laughing all o'er her face, as
+she doth when she is pleased at aught.  "You'll be sure and let me know
+when 'tis, Master?  I'll come, if 'tis snow up to t' knees all t' way."
+
+"The Lord will be sure and let thee know, _Madge_, when 'tis ready,"
+saith _Father_; for he hath oft said that little as poor _Madge_ can
+conceive, he is assured she is one of God's childre.
+
+"Oh, if 'tis _Him_ to let me know, 't'll be all right," saith _Madge_,
+smiling and drawing of her cloak around her.  "He'll not forget
+_Madge_--not He.  He come down o' purpose to die for _me_, you know."
+
+_Father_ saith, as _Madge_ trudged away in her clogs after old _Madge_,
+her grandmother--
+
+"Ah, rich _Madge_--not poor!  May-be thine shall be the most abundant
+entrance of any in this chamber."
+
+I am at the end of my month, and as to-morrow I hand the book to
+_Helen_.  But I dare not count up my two-pences, for I am feared they be
+so many.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Note 1.  Complexion, at this date, signified temperament, not colour.
+The Middle Age physicians divided the complexions of mankind into four--
+the lymphatic, the sanguine, the nervous, and the bilious: and their
+treatment was always grounded on these considerations.  Colour of skin,
+hair, and eyes, being considered symptomatic of complexion, the word was
+readily transferred from one to the other.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER SEVEN.
+
+AUNT JOYCE TACKLES A GHOST.
+
+  "'Twas but one little drop of sin
+  We saw this morning enter in,
+  And lo! at eventide the world is drowned."
+
+  Keble.
+
+(_In Helen's handwriting_.)
+
+                                            SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE IV.
+Dear heart, but I ne'er thought our _Edith_ should have filled so much
+paper!  Yet it doth seem me she is more livelier at writing than at
+household duties.  I have watched her pen a-flying of a night (for she
+can write twice as fast as I, she writing of the new _Italian_ hand, and
+I but the old _English_) [Note 1] till I marvelled whate'er she found to
+say.  And methinks she hath, likewise, a better memory than I, for I
+reckon I should have made some mighty blunder in all these long talks
+which she hath set down so pat.
+
+I had no time to write afore to-day, nor much now: for o' New Year's Day
+had we all the childre of all the vicinage, and I were fair run off my
+feet, first a-making ready, and then a-playing games.  Then was there a
+'stowing away of such matter as should not be wanted again o' Twelfth
+Night.  Trust me, but after Twelfth Night we shall have some jolly work!
+
+Dear heart! but how much hath happed since the last line I writ in this
+book, and 'tis but two months gone.  I do see, as saith the wise man,
+that we verily wit not what a day may bring forth.
+
+Our _Milly_ is coming back something to her old self, though methinks
+she hath learned an hard lesson, and shall ne'er be so light and foolish
+as aforetime.  I trust this is not unkindly to say, for in very deed I
+mean it not so.  But more and more hear we of all sides touching this
+Master _Norris_ (as Aunt _Joyce_ saith is his true name), which doth
+plainly show him a right evil man, and that if our poor _Milly_ had
+trusted to his fair words, she should soon have had cause to repent her
+bitterly thereof.  Why, there is scarce a well-favoured maid in all
+_Derwentdale_, nor _Borrowdale_, that hath not token to show of him, and
+an heap of besugared flatteries for to tell.  Eh, but what an ill world
+is this we live in!--and how thankful should young maids be that have a
+good home to shelter them in, and a loving father and mother to defend
+them from harm!  Trust me, but I never knew how ill place was the world.
+
+Nor did I ever truly conceive aforetime of Aunt _Joyce_.  Methought that
+for her, being rich and well to do, the wheels of life had run rare
+smooth: and that 'twas but a short way to the bottom of her mind and
+heart.  And all suddenly an hand uplifts the corner of a curtain that I
+had taken no note of, and lo! a mighty deep that I never guessed to be
+there.  Is it thus with all folks, I do marvel?--and if we could look
+into the inwards of them that seem as though nought were in them, should
+we find great dreary caverns, or vast mines of wealth?  Yet for all this
+is Aunt _Joyce_ ever bright and cheery, and ready to do all kindly
+service for whoso it be that needeth it.  And 'tis harder to carry an
+heavy burden that it shall not show under your cloak, than to heave it
+up on your shoulder.  I did alway love Aunt _Joyce_, but never better,
+methinks, than sithence I have known somewhat more of her inner mind.
+Poor hasty spirits that we be, how do we misjudge other folk!  But now I
+must tarry in my chronicling, for I hear _Anstace'_ voice below, and I
+reckon she is come to help in making ready for Twelfth Night.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE VIII.
+Well!  Twelfth Night is o'er, and the most of things 'stowed away, and
+all come back to our common ways.  Sixty-eight guests had we, grown folk
+and childre, and I shall not essay, as I see _Edith_ hath done rarely,
+to set down all their names; only there were most of those that come on
+_Christmas_ Eve, but not Dr _Meade_ and his folks, he being bidden of
+my Lord _Dilston_.  Much merriment was there a-drawing of king and
+queen, and it o'er, behold, _Dudley Murthwaite_ was King, and _Mother_
+was Queen.  So _Father_ (which had drawn the Chamberlain) right
+courtlily hands _Mother_ up to the throne, that was set at the further
+end of the great chamber, all laughing rarely to see how well 'twas
+done: and _Martha Rigg, Agnes Benson, Gillian Armstrong_, and our
+_Milly_, that had drawn the Maids of Honour, did dispose themselves
+behind her.  Aunt _Joyce_ was Mother of the Maids, and she said she
+would have a care to rule them with a rod of iron.  So she armed her
+with the poker, and shaked it at each one that tittered, till the most
+were a-holding of their sides with laughter.  _Jack Lewthwaite_ drew the
+Chancellor, and right well he carried him.  Ere their Majesties
+abdicated, and the Court dispersed, had we rare mirth, for Aunt _Joyce_
+laid afore the throne a 'plaint of one of her maids for treason, which
+was _Gillian_, that could no way keep her countenance: and 'twas
+solemnly decreed of their Majesties, and ratified of the Chancellor,
+that the said prisoner be put in fetters, and made to drink poison: the
+which fetters were a long piece of silver lace that had come off a gown
+of _Mother's_, and the poison a glass of syllabub, which Mr Chancellor
+brought to the prisoner, that screamed and begged for mercy, but had it
+not--and hard work had _Gillian_ to beg for mercy, for she was laughing
+till she could scarce utter no words.  Howbeit, this o'er, all we
+gathered around the fire, and played at divers sitting games.  And as we
+were in the midst of "I love my love," and had but just finished R,--
+afore _Margaret Benson_, that was next, could begin with S,--behold, a
+strange voice behind, yet no strange one, crieth out loud and cheery--
+
+"I love my love with an S, because she is sweet; I hate her with S,
+because she is sulky: I took her to the sign of the _Ship_, and treated
+her to sprats and seaweed; her name is _Sophonisba Suckabob_, and she
+comes from _San Sebastian_."
+
+Well, we turned round all and looked on him that had spoke, but in good
+sooth not one of us knew the bright fresh face, until _Mother_ cries
+out,--"_Ned_!  _Ned_, my boy!" and then, I warrant you, there was some
+kissing and hand-shaking, ay, more than a little.
+
+"Fleet ahoy!" saith _Ned_.  "Haven't seen so many crafts in the old
+harbour, for never so long."
+
+"Why, _Ned_, hast thou forgot 'tis Twelfth Night?" says _Milly_.
+
+"So 'tis," quoth _Ned_.  "Shall I dance you a hornpipe?"
+
+So after all the greeting was done, _Ned_ sat down next to _Mother_: but
+we gat no further a-loving of our loves that night, for all wanted to
+hear _Ned_, that is but now come back from the _Spanish_ seas: and
+divers tales he told that were rare taking, and one or twain that did
+make my flesh creep: but truly his sea-talk is rare hard to conceive.
+When all at once saith _Ned_:--
+
+"Have you a ghost cruising these parts?"
+
+"Eh, _Ned_, hast thou seen her?" cries _Austin Park_.
+
+"Who's her?" saith _Ned_.  "I've seen a craft with a white hull and all
+sails up, in the copse nigh old _Nanny's_."
+
+"Couldst thou make it thy conveniency to speak _English, Ned_?" saith
+_Father_.  "That is the language we talk in _Derwentdale_."
+
+_Ned_ laughed, and saith, "I'll endeavour myself; but 'tis none so easy
+to drop it.  Well, who or what is it?"
+
+"'Tis a ghost," saith _Austin_; "and folks laughed at me when I said I
+had seen it: may-be they'll give o'er now."
+
+"Why didst not send a buck-shot through her?" quoth _Ned_.
+
+"Good lack!  I had no arms," saith _Austin_: "and what good should come
+o' shooting a ghost?"
+
+"Make you first sure she is a ghost," saith _Father_: "for it should be
+right little good that should come of shooting a woman."
+
+This was all said that night; and we brake up at nine o' the clock, and
+away hied our guests.
+
+But yestereven, as I was a-crossing of the hall, just after the dusk
+fell, what should I see but Aunt _Joyce_, clad in hood, cloak, and
+pattens, drawing back of the bolt from the garden door: and I ran to
+help her.
+
+"Why, Aunt _Joyce_, whither go you so late?" said I.  "But may-be I do
+ill to ask."
+
+"Nay, thou dost not so, child," saith she: "and I will take thee into my
+secret, for I can trust thee.  _Nell_, I am going to see the ghost."
+
+"Aunt _Joyce_," was all I could utter.
+
+"Ay," saith she, "I will: for my mind misgives me that this is no ghost,
+but a living woman: and a woman that it should be well had an other
+woman to speak unto her.  Be not afeared, dear heart; I am not running
+afore I am sent.  It was said to me last night, `Go in this thy might.'
+And when the Lord sends men on His errands, He pays the charges."
+
+"But if you should be hurt, _Aunt_!" cried I.
+
+"Well, what so?" saith she.  "He were a poor soldier that were afeared
+to be hurt in his King's battles.  But if it be as I think, _Nell_,
+there is no fear thereof.  And if there were, mine ease is of less
+moment than a sinner's soul.  Nay, dear maid, take thine heart to thee
+[cheer up].  There is more with me than all the constables in
+_Cumberland_.  `Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He,--in heaven,
+and in the earth, and in the seas, and in all deep places.'  I am not
+afeared, _Nell_."
+
+And away trudged she, without an other word.  But I sat on thorns till,
+about seven o' the clock, she came into the great chamber, her hood and
+cloak doffed.
+
+"Why, _Joyce_, I had lost thee," saith _Mother_, looking up brightly
+from her sewing.
+
+"I would rather thou hadst lost me than the Lord, _Lettice_: and if thou
+hadst not, methinks He had found me wanting," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Now,
+dear hearts, list me.  I have much trust in you, _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_,
+or I had not dared to do as I have done this night.  I have brought into
+your house a woman that is a sinner.  Will you turn her forth of the
+doors to die in the snow without, or will you let her 'bide till she
+hath had time to behold Him that sitteth as guest at your banquet, and,
+I would hope, to wash His feet with tears, and wipe them with the hairs
+of her head?"
+
+"O _Joyce_, let her 'bide!" crieth _Mother_, and the tears ran down her
+cheeks.
+
+"Amen!" saith _Father_, gently.
+
+"But who is she?" saith _Mother_, as if something fearfully.
+
+"She is,"--Aunt _Joyce's_ voice was very husky--"she is what our
+_Milisent_ would have been, if the Lord had not stayed her right at the
+last minute."
+
+So then I knew that _Blanche Lewthwaite_ was found at last.
+
+There were none in the chamber, as it happed, but _Father_, _Mother_,
+and me, when _Aunt_ came in.
+
+"And what hath she to say?" asks _Mother_.
+
+"She will not talk of the past," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "and, God wot, I
+shall not ask her."
+
+"Is she very 'shamed and sorrowful?"
+
+"Never a whit.  She is more angered than aught else."
+
+"Angered!--with whom?"
+
+"With _Providence_, I take it," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, something drily.
+"She counts a miracle should have been wrought for her to hinder her
+from sinning, and that since it were not, there can be no blame laid at
+her door."
+
+"So hard as that!" saith _Mother_.
+
+"May-be not all through," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer.  "The crust seems
+thick at present: but there may be a soft spot deep down below.  I shall
+work till I find it."
+
+"Is she not softened toward thee?" asks _Father_.
+
+"Me!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with a bitter little laugh.  "Why, so far as I
+can make out, I am but one step fairer than _Providence_ in her eyes.  I
+gat not much flattery this even, I can tell you--no more than I had of
+_Milly_ a month gone.  Nay, _Aubrey_.  He that would save a sinner
+against his will must not expect thanks from him."
+
+"Shall I go to her, _Joyce_?" saith _Mother_, and rose up.
+
+"As thou wilt, _Lettice_," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Only, an' thou so dost,
+look not for any fair words save out of thine own mouth.  She is in the
+green chamber.  I locked her in."
+
+"Hath she had to eat?" saith _Mother_.
+
+"Ay; I saw to that ere I came below."
+
+_Mother_ went forth of the chamber.
+
+"May I see her, Aunt _Joyce_," said I, "or must I not?"
+
+"Better not at this present, _Nell_," she made answer.  "But--I am not
+sure that it were not well for _Milly_."
+
+When _Mother_ came down again, she saith in a despairing voice, and
+spreading forth her hands--
+
+"O _Joyce_, she is as hard as a stone!"
+
+"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, quietly.  "So, I reckon, was _Peter_, until
+the Lord turned and looked upon him.  That melted him, _Lettice_.  Leave
+us take _Blanche_ to the Lord."
+
+"Sin is the most hardening thing in the world, dear heart," saith
+_Father_, sadly.
+
+So here is poor _Blanche_, locked of the green chamber, with Aunt
+_Joyce_ for her waiting-maid, for none other will she have to enter--not
+even _Mother_, for her one talk with _Blanche_ hath sore distressed her.
+
+"Wait a while, _Lettice_," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "I will bid thee when I
+reckon any good should come of it."
+
+_Milisent_ hath been told, and seemeth much touched therewith: but none
+of us have yet seen _Blanche_.  Poor heart! may the good Lord have mercy
+upon her!
+
+                                           SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XII.
+_Mother_, and I with her, went up this morrow to _Mere Lea_, to do
+Mistress _Lewthwaite_ to wit touching _Blanche_.  We found her right
+busy a-making of pies, and _Alice_ by her paring of apples.  She gave us
+good welcome, and we sat us down, and talked a short while of other
+matter.  Then saith _Mother_:--
+
+"Suffer me to ask at you, Mistress _Lewthwaite_, if you have heard ever
+any news of _Blanche_?"
+
+Mistress _Lewthwaite_ shaked her head sorrowfully.
+
+"Nay, not we," saith she.  "It should be a good day we did.  Albeit, her
+father is sore angered: yet methinks if he did verily stand face to face
+with the child, he should not be so hard on her as he talks now."
+
+"Then I hope the good day is coming," saith _Mother_.  "For methinks,
+neighbour, we have heard somewhat."
+
+Mistress _Lewthwaite_ left her pastry of the board, and come up to
+_Mother_.
+
+"Eh, Lady _Lettice_, what have you heard?  Tell me quick, now!"
+
+"My poor heart, I saw her last night."
+
+"Where is the child?"
+
+"With us, at _Selwick_ Hall.  _Joyce_ found her, wandering about, and
+hiding in copses, and she brought her in."
+
+"And what hath happed, Lady _Lettice_?"
+
+"We have not asked her."
+
+"Not asked her!" saith Mistress _Lewthwaite_, in manifest amazement; and
+_Alice_ looked up with the like.
+
+"We know," saith _Mother_, "but such matter as it hath liked her to tell
+us: the which is, that she was wed to this gentleman of a _Popish_
+priest, which as you know is not good in law: and that after she had
+bidden with him but a fortnight, they quarrelled, and he left her."
+
+"Ah, she ne'er had a good temper, hadn't _Blanche_," saith her mother.
+"Well, poor heart!  I'll not quarrel with her.  We're all sinners, I
+reckon.  The lass may come home when she will, for all me; and I'll do
+mine utmost to peace her father.  We haven't so much time o' this world,
+nor so much happiness, that we need wrangle and make matters worser."
+
+For Mistress _Lewthwaite_ is herself a right easy-going woman: 'tis her
+father of whom _Blanche_ hath her temper.  But _Alice_ saith to me, that
+sat right at the end of the board where she was a-work--
+
+"All very well, methinks, for my fine mistress to come hither a-prinking
+and a-pranking of her, and looking to be took back as if nought had
+happened.  If I had the word to say, she'd not come home in no hurry, I
+warrant you.  She should lie on her bed as she'd made it."
+
+"O _Alice_!" said I, "but sure, thou wilt be right glad to have
+_Blanche_ back?"
+
+"Shall I so?" saith she, and tossed her head.  "Thank you for nothing,
+_Nell Louvaine_.  I'm a decent maid that have alway carried me belike,
+and I go not about to say `sister' to one that brought disgrace on her
+name."
+
+"_Alice_, art thou about to play the _Pharisee_?" said I, for I was sore
+troubled.  I had ever thought _Alice_ right sorry after _Blanche_, and
+it did astonish me to hear such words of her.
+
+"Let my fine Lady _Everett_ play the publican first, then," quoth she.
+
+I scarce wist what to say, yet I would have said more, but that _Mother_
+rose up to depart at this time.  But I am so astonied at _Alice_.  While
+so _Blanche_ were lost, she did seem quite soft toward her; and now she
+is found, here is _Alice_ grown hard as a board, and all of a minute, as
+it were.  Had it been our _Milly_ (which I do thank God from mine
+heart-root it is not) I think I would not have been thus towards her.  I
+know I am but sinful and not to be trusted for the right, as much or
+more than other: but I do _think_ I should not so do.
+
+Yet is there one matter that I comprehend not, nor never shall, neither
+of _Milly_ nor of any other.  To think of a maid leaving of father and
+mother, and her home, and her brethren and sisters, to go away with a
+fine-spoken man that she had not known a month, all by reason he spake
+some flattering words--in good sooth, but 'tis a marvel unto me.  Truly,
+I might conceive the same in case a maid were rare ill-usen at home--
+were her father ever harsh unto her, and her mother all day a-nagging at
+her--then, if the man should show him no mere flatterer, but a true
+friend, would I not stick to the days she had known him.  And yet, as
+methinks, it should be a strange case wherein a true man should not go
+boldly and honestly to the maid's father, and ask her of him, with no
+hole-and-corner work.  But to think of so leaving _our_ father and
+mother, that never in all their lives did deny us any good thing that
+was meet for us, and that have loved us and cared for us all, from the
+day we were born unto this day--to go away from them with a strange
+flatterer--nay, this passeth me by many a mile.
+
+                                           SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XVI.
+This morrow, as I was sat a-work alone in the great chamber, come my
+Lady _Stafford_, with her broidery in her hand, and sat her down beside
+me.  And ere many minutes were passed, saith she--
+
+"_Helen_, I have been to see _Blanche_."
+
+"And is she still so hard, my Lady?" said I.
+
+"I should not call her mood hard," saith she.  "I think she is very,
+very sorry, and would fain not have us see it.  But," she paused a
+moment, and then went on, "it is the worldly sorrow which causeth
+death."
+
+"Your Ladyship would say?"
+
+"She is right sorry for my Lady _Everett_, for the great lady she
+thought to have been, and the grand life she looked to lead: but for
+_Blanche Lewthwaite_ as a sinner before God, methinks she is not sorry
+at all."
+
+"'Tis a sad case," said I.
+
+My Lady _Stafford_ gave me no answer, and when I looked up at her, I saw
+her dark eyes fastened on the white clouds which were floating softly
+across the blue, and her eyes so full that they all-to [nearly] ran
+o'er.
+
+"_Helen_," she saith, "hast thou any idea what is sin?"
+
+"Truly, Madam, I think so," I made answer.
+
+"I marvel," she pursueth, "if there ever were man or woman yet, that
+could see it as God seeth it.  It may be that unto Him all the evil that
+_Blanche_ hath done--and 'tis an evil with many sides to it--is a lesser
+thing than the pride and unbelief which will not give her leave to own
+that she hath done it.  And for what others have done--"
+
+All suddenly, her Ladyship brake off, and hiding her face in her
+kerchief, she brake into such a passion of weeping tears as methought I
+had scarce seen in any woman aforetime.
+
+"O my God, my God!" she sobbeth through her tears, "how true is it that
+`man knows the beginnings of sin, but who boundeth the issues thereof!'"
+[Note 2.]
+
+I felt that my Lady's trouble, the cause whereof was unknown to me, lay
+far beyond any words, specially of me: and I could but keep respectful
+silence till she grew calm.  When so were, quoth she--
+
+"Dost marvel at my tears, _Helen_?"
+
+"In no wise, Madam," said I: "for I reckoned there were some cause for
+them, beyond my weak sight."
+
+"Cause!" saith she--"ay, _Helen_, cause more than thou wist.  Dost know
+that this _Leonard Norris_--the man that hath wrought all this
+mischief--and more beside than thou or I can tell--is my brother, of the
+father's side?"
+
+"Madam!" cried I in amaze.
+
+"Ay," saith she sorrowfully: "and that is not all, _Helen_, by very
+much.  For our father was just such an other: and not only are the sins,
+but the leanings and temptations of the fathers, visited upon the
+children.  And I thought, _Helen_, beyond that--of a quiet grave in
+unconsecrate ground, wherein, now nigh fifty years agone, they laid one
+that had not sinned against the light like to _Blanche Lewthwaite_, yet
+to whom the world was harder than it is like to be to her.  She was
+lawfully wed, _Helen_, but she stood pledged to convent vows, and the
+Church cursed her and flung her forth as a loathsome thing.  Her life
+for twelve years thereafter was a daily dying, whereto death came at
+last as a hope and a mercy.  I reckon the angels drew not their white
+robes aside, lest her soiled feet should brush them as she passed up to
+the Judgment Bar.  And methinks her sentence from the Judge should be no
+worser than one He gave in the days of His flesh--`Thy sins be forgiven
+thee: go in peace.'  The Church cast her out, but not the Cross.  There
+was no room for her in the churchyard: but methinks there was enough in
+the Sepulchre on _Golgotha_!"
+
+Oh, but how sorry I felt for this poor soul! and I saw she was one whom
+her Ladyship had loved well.
+
+"There was a time, _Helen_," she went on, "when it seemed to me
+uttermost misery that no prayers should be permitted for her soul.
+Think thou with what comfort I found in God's Word that none were needed
+for her.  Ah, these _Papists_ will tell you of the happiness of their
+priests' fatherly care, and the sweetness of absolution: but they tell
+you not of the agony of despair to them to whom absolution is denied,
+and for whom the Church and the priest have no words save curses.  I
+have seen it, _Helen_.  Well for them whom it drives straight to Him
+that is high above all Churches, and who hath mercy on whom He will have
+mercy.  Praise be to His holy name, that the furthest bounds of men's
+forbearance touch not the `uttermost' of God."
+
+When my Lady thus spake, it came upon my mind all of a sudden, to ask at
+her somewhat the which had troubled me of long time.  I marvel wherefore
+it should be, that it doth alway seem easier to carry one's knots and
+griefs unto them that be not the nearest and dearest, than unto them
+that be.  Is it by reason that courtesy ordereth that they shall list
+the better, and not be so like to snub a body?--yet that can scarce be
+so with me, that am alway gently entreated both of _Father_ and
+_Mother_.  Or is it that one would not show ignorance or mistakings
+afore them one loves, nor have them hereafter cast in one's teeth, as
+might be if one were o'erheard of one's sist--Good lack! but methought I
+were bettered of saying unkindly things.  I will stay me, not by reason
+that it should cost me two pence, but because I do desire to please God
+and do the right.
+
+Well, so I said unto my Lady, "Madam, I pray you pardon me if I speak
+not well, but there is one place of Holy Writ that doth sore pose and
+trouble me.  It is that of Saint _Paul_, which saith, that if they that
+were once enlightened shall fall away, there shall be no hope to renew
+them again.  That doth alway seem to me so awful a word!--to think of
+one that had sinned longing for forgiveness, and yet must not have it--I
+cannot understand how it should be, when _Christ_ liveth to save to the
+uttermost!"
+
+"Nor any other," saith she.  "Dear _Helen_, thou readest it wrong, as I
+believe many do.  The Apostle saith not, there is no renewing to
+_pardon_: he saith, there is no renewing to _repentance_.  With them
+that have sinned against light, the language of whose hearts is, `I have
+loved idols, and after them I will _go_,'--these have no desire of
+remission.  They do not wish to be forgiven.  But these, dear maid, are
+not they that long for pardon and are willing to turn from sin.  That is
+repentance.  So long as a sinner can repent, so long can he receive
+pardon.  The sinner that doth long for forgiveness which God can not or
+will not give him, is a monster was never found yet in this world or
+that which is to come."
+
+Right comfortable did I think these words.  I never should have dared
+(as _Milly_ saith touching the 139th Psalm) to have turned o'er the two
+leaves together that I might not see this sixth chapter of _Hebrews_:
+yet did I never see it without a diseaseful creeping feeling, belike,
+coming o'er me.  And I am sore afeared lest I may have come nigh, at
+times, to wishing that Saint _Paul_ had not writ the same.
+
+"Yet mark thou, _Helen_," again saith my Lady, "there is a difference
+betwixt remission of sin and remission of penalty.  Every sinner should
+be glad enough to part with his punishment: but no sinner was ever yet
+willing to part with his sin but under the promptings of God's Spirit.
+And that is but a sorry repentance which would fain keep the sin, if
+only it might without incurring penalty."
+
+"Madam, you do cause sin to look very awful," said I.
+
+"That is how God would have thee see it, _Helen_," saith she.
+"Remember, He hates sin not for His own sake only, but for thy sake.
+Ah, dear maid, when some sin, or some matter that perhaps scarce seems
+sin to thee, yet makes a cloud to rise up betwixt God and thee--when
+this shall creep into thy very bosom, and nestle himself there warm and
+close, and be unto thee as a precious jewel--remember, if so be, that
+`it is better _for thee_ to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than
+thou shouldst, having two hands, or two feet, be cast into everlasting
+fire.'  He that said that, _Helen_, knew what Hell was."
+
+                                           SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XXI.
+_Blanche_ is gone home at last.  Aunt _Joyce_ and I went thither this
+last night with her, her mother having wrung consent from her father
+that she should come.  For all that was the scene distressful, for
+Master _Lewthwaite_ kept not in divers sharp speeches, and _Blanche_
+(that is sore wanting in reverence to her elders) would answer back as
+she should not: but at the last Mistress _Lewthwaite_ gat them peaced,
+and _Alice_ and _Blanche_ went off together.  _Alice_ behaved better
+than my fears.  But, dear heart, to my thinking, how hard and proud is
+_Blanche_!  Why, she would brazen it out that she hath done none ill of
+no kind.  The good Lord open her eyes!
+
+When we came out from _Mere Lea_, and were come down the garden path,
+Aunt _Joyce_ stood a moment on the hill-side, her eyes lift up to the
+still stars.
+
+"Good Lord!" then saith she, "how hard be we poor sinful men and women,
+each to other, and how much more forbearing art Thou against whom we
+have sinned!  Make Thou Thy servants more like Thyself!"
+
+And then away, with a quick foot, and never an other word spake she till
+we gat us home.
+
+                                         SELWICK HALL, JANUARY YE XXVII.
+When I come to read o'er that I have writ, I find I have said rare
+little touching _Ned_.  And in very deed it is not that I meant to keep
+him out, for _Ned_ is my very hero, and my true thought is that never
+yet were young man so brave and good, nor so well-favoured.  I must say
+I would I could conceive his talk better: for 'tis all so stuffed with
+sea-words that I would fain have an interpreter.  _Ned_ laughs when I
+say this.
+
+"Well," saith he, "'tis the strangest thing in the world you should not
+conceive me.  'Tis all along of you being maids, I reckon."
+
+"Nay," say I, "'tis by reason we were ne'er at sea."
+
+"Well, how any human creature can be a landlubber," saith _Ned_, "when
+he might have a good boat and a stiff capful o' wind, passeth me
+rarely."
+
+"Why," quoth _Father_, that had listed us in silence till now, "if we
+were all sailors and mermen, _Ned_, how wouldst come by a sea-biscuit or
+a lump of salt meat?  There should be none to sow nor reap, if the land
+were deserted."
+
+"Oh ay, 'tis best some should love it," saith _Ned_.  "But how they so
+should, that is it passeth me."
+
+"'Tis a strange matter," saith _Father_, "that we men should be all of
+us unable to guess how other men can affect that we love not.  I dare be
+bound that _Wat_ should say what passed him was that any man which might
+dwell on the land should take to the sea."
+
+"_Wat_!" saith Ned, curling of his lip.  "I saw him, Sir, and spent two
+days in his company, when we touched at _London_ some eight months gone.
+Why, he is--Nay, I wis not what he is like.  All the popinjays in the
+South Seas be fools to him."
+
+"Is he so fine, _Ned_?" asks _Milly_.
+
+"Fine!" saith _Ned_.  "Go to, I have some whither an inventory of his
+Lordship's garments, the which I set down for the mirth of you maids.  I
+gat the true names of _Wat_, look you."
+
+And he pulleth forth a great bundle of papers from his pocket, and after
+some search lighteth on the right.
+
+"Now then, hearken, all of you," saith _Ned_.  "_Imprimis_, on his
+head--when it is on, but as every minute off it cometh to every creature
+he meeteth, 'tis not much--a _French_-fashioned beaver, guarded of a set
+of gold buttons enamelled with black--cost, eight pound."
+
+"For a hat!" cries _Milly_.
+
+"Tarry a bit," saith _Ned_; "I am not in port yet by a thousand knots.
+Then in this hat was a white curled ostrich feather, six shillings.
+Below, a gown of tawny velvet, wherein were six yards, _London_ measure,
+of four-and-twenty shillings the yard: and guarded with some make of fur
+(I forgat to ask him the name of that), two dozen skins, eight pence
+each: cost of this goodly gown, six pound, ten shillings, and four
+pence."
+
+"Eh!" cried _Milly_ and _Edith_ together.
+
+"Bide a bit!" saith _Ned_.  "_Item_, a doublet, of black satin of
+sixteen shillings the yard, with points of three and sixpence the dozen.
+_Item_, a pair of hose of popinjay green (they be well called popinjay)
+of thirty shillings.  _Item_, cross-garters of scarlet--how's that?"
+quoth _Ned_, scratching his forehead with a pencil: "I must have forgat
+the price o' them.  Boots o' red _Spanish_ leather, nine shillings.
+Gloves of _Cordova_, well scented, ten pence.  Gold rings of 's ears,
+three shilling the pair."
+
+"Rings!  Of his ears!" cries Cousin _Bess_, that was sat in the window
+at her sewing, as she mostly is of an afternoon.  "And prithee, what
+cost the one of his nose?"
+
+"He hasn't bought that yet," saith _Ned_ drily.
+
+"It'll come soon, I reckon," quoth she.
+
+"Then, o'er all, a mighty gold chain, as thick as a cart-rope.  But
+that, as he told me, was given to him: so 'tis not fair to put it of the
+price.  Eh, good lack!  I well-nigh forgat the sleeves--green velvet,
+slashed of mallard-colour satin; and guarded o' silver lace--three
+pound, eight shillings, and four pence."
+
+"Hast made an end, _Ned_?" saith _Edith_.
+
+"Well, I reckon I may cast anchor," saith _Ned_, looking o'er to the
+other side of his paper.
+
+"Favour me with the total, _Ned_," quoth _Father_.
+
+"Twenty-three pound, two and six pence, Sir, I make it," saith _Ned_.
+"I am not so sure _Wat_ could.  He saith figuring is only fit for
+shop-folk."
+
+"Is thrift only fit for shop-folk too?" asks _Father_.
+
+"I'll warrant you _Wat_ thinks so, Sir," answers _Ned_.
+
+"What have thy garments cost this last year, _Ned_?" pursueth _Father_.
+
+"Eh, five pound would buy mine any year," quoth he.
+
+"And so I reckon would ten mine," saith _Father_.  "What be _Wat's_
+wages now?--is he any thing bettered?"
+
+"Sixteen pound the year, Sir, as he told me."
+
+"I guess shop-folk should be something put to it to take twenty-three
+out of sixteen," quoth _Father_.
+
+"And prithee, _Ned_, how many such suits hath my young gentleman in his
+wardrobe?"
+
+"That cannot I say certainly, Sir: but I would guess six or seven,"
+_Ned_ makes answer.  "But, dear heart! you wit not the half hath to come
+of that sixteen pound: beyond clothes, there be presents, many and rich
+(this last new year but one girdle of seven pound;) pomanders [perfumed
+balls, which served as scent-bottles], and boxes of orange comfits, and
+cups of tamarisk wood, and _aqua mirabilis_, and song books, and
+virginals [the predecessor of the piano] and viols [violins], and his
+portrait in little, and playing tables [backgammon], and speculation
+glasses [probably magnifying glasses], and cinnamon water, and
+sugar-candy, and fine _Venice_ paper for his letters, and
+pouncet-boxes--"
+
+"Take breath, _Ned_," saith _Father_.  "How many letters doth _Wat_
+write by the year?"
+
+"They be love-letters, on the _Venice_ paper," quoth _Ned_.  "In good
+sooth, I wis not, Sir: only I saw them flying hither and thither as
+thick as Mother _Carey's_ chickens."
+
+"Is he troth-plight?" saith _Father_, very seriously.
+
+"Not that I heard," _Ned_ makes answer.  "He had two or three strings to
+his bow, I guess.  One a right handsome young lady, daughter unto my
+Lord of _Sheffield_, that had taken up with him the new fashion called
+_Euphuism_."
+
+"Prithee interpret, _Ned_," saith _Father_, "for that passeth my weak
+head."
+
+I saw _Milly_ to blush, and cast down her eyes of her tapestry-work: and
+I guessed she wist what it were.
+
+"'Tis a rare diversion, Sir, come up of late," answers _Ned_: "whereby,
+when a gentlewoman and a gentleman be in treaty of love,--or without the
+same, being but friends--they do agree to call each other by certain
+dainty and fantastical names: as the one shall be _Perfection_, and the
+other _Hardihood_: or, the one _Sweetness_, and the other _Fortitude_:
+and the like.  I prayed _Wat_ to show me how it were, or else had I wist
+no more than a baker how to reef a sail.  The names whereby he and his
+lady do call each other be, she his _Excellency_, and he her _Courage_."
+
+"Be these men and women grown?" quoth _Father_.
+
+"Nay, sure!" cries Cousin _Bess_.
+
+"Every one, Sir," saith _Ned_, a-laughing.
+
+"And, poor souls! can they find nought better to do?" quoth _Father_.
+
+"They have not yet, it seems," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Are you ne'er mocking of us, think you?" saith Cousin _Bess_ to _Ned_.
+
+"Never a whit!" crieth he.  "Eh, Cousin _Bess_, I could tell you queerer
+matters than that."
+
+"Nay, I'll hear none, o' my good will," saith she.  "_Paul_ saith we be
+to think on whatsoever things be lovely: and I reckon he wasn't like to
+mean on a parcel o' big babes, playing at make-believe."
+
+"They have nought else to do, it appears," quoth _Father_.
+
+"Dear heart!" saith she.  "Could they ne'er buy a bale of flannel, and
+make some doublets and petticoats for the poor?  He must be a poor silly
+companion that shall call a woman _Excellency_, when she hath done
+nought all her life but to pluck roses and finger her gold chain.
+Where's her excellency, belike?"
+
+"Things were ill enough in the Court of old," saith _Father_, "but it
+doth seem me we were scantly so brainless of old time as this.  I shall
+send a letter to my cousin of _Oxenford_ touching _Walter_.  He must not
+be suffered to drift into--"
+
+_Father_ did not end his sentence.  But methought I could guess
+reasonable well how it should have been finished.
+
+Verily, I am troubled touching _Wat_, and will pray for him, that he may
+be preserved safe from the snares of the world, the flesh, and the
+Devil.  Oh, what a blessed place must Heaven be, seeing there shall be
+none of them!
+
+One thing, howbeit, doth much comfort me,--and that is, that _Ned_ is
+true and staunch as ever to the early training he had of _Father_ and
+_Mother_ out of God's Word.  Some folk might think him careless and too
+fond of laughter, and fun, and the like: but I know _Ned_--of early days
+I was ever his secret fellow--and I am well assured his heart is right
+and true.  He shall 'bide with us until Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ his next
+voyage out to the _Spanish_ seas, but we know not yet when that shall
+be.  He had intended to make the coast of _Virginia_ this last time, but
+was beat back by the tempest.  'Tis said that when he goeth, his brother
+of the mother's side, Sir _Walter Raleigh_, shall go with him.  This Sir
+_Walter_, saith _Ned_, is a young gentleman that hath but eight and
+twenty years, yet is already of much note in the Court.  He hath a rare
+intelligence and a merry wit.  Aunt _Joyce_ was mightily taken by one
+tale that _Ned_ told us of him,--how that, being at the house of some
+gentleman in the country, where the mistress of the house was mightily
+set up and precise, one morrow, this Sir _Walter_, that was a-donning
+[dressing] himself, did hear the said his precise and delicate hostess,
+without his door, to ask at her servants, "Be the pigs served?"  No
+sooner had they met below, than saith Sir _Walter_, "Madam, be the pigs
+served?"
+
+But my Lady, that moved not a muscle of her face, replied as calm as you
+will, "You know best, Sir, whether you have had your breakfast."  Aunt
+_Joyce_ did laugh o'er this, and said Sir _Walter_ demerited to have as
+good given him as he brought.
+
+"I do like," quoth she, "a woman that can stand up to a man!"
+
+"I can credit it, _Joyce_," saith _Father_.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Note 1.  The English hand was the running hand of the old black letter,
+and was a very crabbed and tedious piece of work.  The Italian hand,
+which came in about this time, has lasted until the present day, though
+its latest variety has lost much of the old clearness and beauty.  It
+was at its best in the reign of James the First, of which period some
+specimens of writing have been preserved, exquisitely beautiful, and as
+legible as copper-plate.  Most lovely is the youthful hand of his eldest
+daughter: the cacography of her later years is, alas! something
+horrible.  Queen Elizabeth could write the Italian hand (and did it to
+perfection), but she has left on record that she did not like doing it.
+
+Note 2.  These were the last words of Francesco Spira, an Italian lawyer
+and a pervert, whose terrible death, in the agonies of remorse and
+despair, made a deep and lasting impression on the Protestants of
+England.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER EIGHT.
+
+HOW TWO WENT IN AT THE GATE.
+
+              "All the foolish work
+  Of fancy, and the bitter close of all."
+
+  Tennyson.
+
+  "On all the sweet smile falleth
+      Of Him who loveth so,
+  But to one the sweet voice calleth,
+      `Arise, and let us go;
+  They wait to welcome thee,
+  This night, at Home, with Me.'"
+
+  "B.M."
+
+(_In Milisent's handwriting_.)
+
+                                           SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE II.
+This day was called of old time _Candlemas_, by reason of the great
+number of candles, saith _Father_, which were brent afore the altar at
+the Purification of Saint _Mary_.  Being an holy day, all we to church
+this morrow, after the which I was avised to begin my chronicling.
+
+And afore I set down anything else, 'tis meet I should say that I do now
+see plain how I have played the fool, and have erred exceedingly.  I
+would not think now to tear forth those pages I writ this last
+_November_, though they be such a record of folly and sin as few maids
+should need to set down.  I would rather keep them, that I may see in
+future days all the ill that was once in _Milisent Louvaine_, and all
+the great mercy and goodness which the Lord my God did show me.
+
+Oh, the bitter anger that was in mine heart that night toward dear Aunt
+_Joyce_!--who, next unto _Father_ and _Mother_, hath been to me as an
+angel of God.  For had she not stopped me in my madness, where and what
+had I been to-night?  I can scarce bear to think on it.  Perchance I
+feel it the more, sith I am ever put in mind thereof by the woefully
+changed face of poor _Blanche_--_Blanche_, but three months gone the
+merriest of us all, and now looking as though she should never know a
+day's merriment again.  Her whole life seems ruined: and Dr _Bell_, the
+chirurgeon at _Keswick_, told _Mother_ but yesterday that _Blanche_
+should not live long.  She hath, said he, a leaning of her nature toward
+the consumption of the lungs, the which was greatly worsened by those
+days that she hid in the copse, fearing to come home, until Aunt _Joyce_
+went to her.
+
+And to think that I might have been thus now--with nought but a wasted
+life to look back on, and nought to look forward to but a rapid and
+early death!  And to know well, as I do know, that I have but mine own
+headstrong foolery to thank for the danger, and am far from having any
+wisdom of mine to thank for the rescue.  Verily, I should be the
+humblest of women, all the days of my life.
+
+Oh, when will young maids learn, without needing to have it brent into
+them of hot irons, that they which have dwelt forty or sixty years in
+this world be like to know more about its ways than they that have lived
+but twenty; or that their own fathers and mothers, which have loved and
+cared for them since they lay in the cradle, be not like to wreck their
+happiness, even for a while, without they have good cause!  Of force, I
+know 'tis not every maid hath such a father and mother as we--thank God
+for the same!--but I do think, nevertheless, there be few mothers that
+be good women at all, which should not be willing to have their
+daughters bring their sorrows and joys to them, rather than pour them
+into the ear of the first man that will flatter them.  I have learned,
+from Aunt _Joyce_, that there is oft a deal more in folk than other folk
+reckon, and that if we come not on the soft spot in a woman's heart,
+'tis very commonly by reason that we dig not deep enough.  Howbeit, Aunt
+_Joyce_ saith there be women that have no hearts.  The good Lord keep
+them out of my path, if His will be!
+
+                                            SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE V.
+This morrow, we maids were sat a-work in the great chamber, where was
+Aunt _Joyce_ a-work likewise, and _Mother_ coming in and out on her
+occasions.  _Father_ was there, but he was wrapped in a great book that
+lay afore him.  I cannot well mind how we gat on the matter, but Aunt
+_Joyce_ 'gan speak of the blunders that men do commonly make when they
+speak of women.
+
+"Why," saith she, "we might be an other sort of animal altogether,
+instead of the one half of themselves.  Do but look you what I have
+heard men to say in my life.  A woman's first desire is to be wed;
+that's not true but of some women, and they be the least worthy of the
+sex.  A woman can never keep a secret: that's not true but of some.  A
+woman can never take a joke: that's as big a falsehood as _Westminster_
+Abbey.  A woman cannot understand reason and logic: that's as big an one
+as all _England_.  Any woman can keep a house or manage a babe: heyday,
+can she so?  I know better.  Poor loons, what should they say if we made
+as great blunders touching them?  And an other thing I will tell you
+which hath oft-times diverted me: 'tis the queer ways whereby a man will
+look to win favour of a woman.  Nine men of every ten will suppose they
+shall be liked of a woman for telling her (in substance) that she is as
+good as if she had not been one.  Now, that should set the man that did
+it out of my grace for ever and ever."
+
+"How mean you, _Aunt_, an' it like you?" saith _Nell_.
+
+"Why, look you here," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "But this last week, said I
+to Master _Coward_, touching somewhat he had said, `But,' said I, `that
+were not just.'  Quoth he, `How, my mistress!--you a woman, and love
+justice?'  Again: there was once a companion would fain have won me to
+wed him.  When I said `Nay,' (and meant it), quoth he, `Oh, a maid doth
+never say yea at the first.'  And I do believe that both these thought
+to flatter me.  If they had but known how I longed to shake them!  For
+look you what the words meant.  A woman is never just: a woman is never
+sincere.  And the dolts reckon it shall please us to know that they take
+us for such fools!  Verily, I would give a pretty penny but to make them
+conceive that the scrap of flattery which they do offer to my particular
+is utterly swamped in the vast affront which they give to my sex in the
+general.  But you shall rarely see a man to guess that.  Moreover, there
+be two other points.  Mark you how a man shall serve a woman, if he come
+to know that she hath the tongues [knows the classical languages].  Doth
+he take it as he should with an other man?  Never a whit.  He treats the
+matter as though an horse should read _English_, or a cat play the
+spinnet.  What right hath he to account my brains so much worser than
+his (I being the same creature as he) that I cannot learn aught he can?
+`So mean-brained a thing as a woman to know as much as any man!'  I
+grant you, he shall not say such words: but he shall say words that mean
+it.  And then, forsooth, he shall reckon he hath paid me a compliment!
+I trow no woman should have brains as dull as that.  And do tell me,
+belike, why a man that can talk right good sense to his fellows, shall
+no sooner turn him around to a woman, than he shall begin to chatter the
+veriest nonsense?  It doth seem me, that a man never thinks of any woman
+but the lowest quality.  He counts her loving, if you will; but alway
+foolish, frothy, witless.  He'll take every one of you for that make of
+woman, till he find the contrary.  Oh, these men! these men!"
+
+"Ah!" saith _Father_.  "I feel myself one of the inferior sex."
+
+"_Aubrey_, what business hast thou hearkening?" quoth she.  "I thought
+thou wert lost in yonder big book."
+
+"I found myself again, some minutes gone," saith _Father_.  "But thou
+wist, 'tis an old saw that listeners do never hear any good of
+themselves."
+
+"I didn't mean thee, man!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Present company always
+excepted."
+
+"Methought I was reckoned absent company," saith _Father_, with a
+twinkle in his eyes, and lifting his big book from the table.  "Howbeit,
+I am not too proud to learn."
+
+"Even from a woman?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_.  "Thou art the pearl of men, if
+so be."
+
+_Father_ laughed, and carried off his book, pausing at the door to
+observe--"There is some truth in much thou hast said, _Joyce_."
+
+"Lack-a-day, what an acknowledgment from a man!" cries Aunt _Joyce_.
+"Yet 'tis fenced round, look you.  `There is _some_ truth in _much_' I
+have said.  Ah, go thy ways, my good _Aubrey_; thou art the best man
+ever I knew: but, alack! thou art a man, after all."
+
+"Why, Aunt _Joyce_," saith _Edith_, who was laughing rarely, "what
+should we do, think you, if there were no men?"
+
+"I would do some way, thou shouldst see," saith Aunt _Joyce_, sturdily.
+
+And so she let the matter drop; or should so have done, but _Nell_
+saith--
+
+"I reckon we all, both men and women, have in us a touch of our father,
+old _Adam_!"
+
+"And our mother, old _Eva_," said I.
+
+"You say well, childre," quoth Aunt _Joyce_: "and she that hath the
+biggest touch of any I know is a certain old woman of _Oxfordshire_, by
+name _Joyce Morrell_."
+
+Up springeth _Edith_, and giveth Aunt _Joyce_ a great hug.
+
+"She is the best, sweetest, dearest old woman (if so be) ever I knew,"
+saith she.  "I except not even _Mother_, for I count not her an old
+woman."
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ laughed, and paid _Edith_ back her hug with usury.
+
+Then, when _Edith_ was set down again to her work, Aunt _Joyce_ saith--
+
+"_Anstace_ was wont to say--my _Anstace_, not yours, my maids--that she
+which did commonly put herself in the lowest place should the seldomest
+find her out of her reckoning."
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY THE IX.
+Come Dr _Bell_ this morrow to let us blood, as is alway done of the
+spring-time.  I do never love these blood-letting days, sith for a
+se'nnight after I do feel weak as water.  But I reckon it must needs be,
+to keep away fever and plague and such like, the which should be worser
+than blood-letting a deal.  All we were blooded, down to _Adam_; and Dr
+_Bell_ rode away, by sixteen shillings the richer man, which is a deal
+for a chirurgeon to earn but of one morrow.  Aunt _Joyce_ saith she
+marvelleth if in time to come physicians cannot discover some herb or
+the like that shall purify folks' blood without having it run out of
+them like water from a tap.  I would, if so be, that they might make
+haste and find the same.
+
+_Father_ hath writ to his cousin my Lord of _Oxenford_, praying him to
+give leave for _Wat_ to visit us at home.  'Tis four years sithence he
+were here; and _Father_ hath been wont to say that shall be a rare
+well-writ letter which shall (in common cases) do half the good of a
+talk face to face.  I can see he is somewhat diseaseful touching _Wat_,
+lest he should slide into ill ways.
+
+We do hear of old _Nanny_, that cometh by nows and thens for waste
+victuals, that daft _Madge_ is something sick.  Her grandmother reckons
+she caught an ill rheum that even of _Christmas_ Day when she were here:
+but _Madge_ herself will strongly deny the same, saying (poor maid!)
+that she never could take nought ill at _Selwick_ Hall, for never nought
+but good (saith she) came to her there.  _Mother_ would go to visit her,
+but she hath an evil rheum herself, and _Father_ saith she must tarry at
+home this sharp frost: so Aunt _Joyce_ and I be to go this afternoon,
+and carry her a basket of comfortable things.
+
+                                            SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE X.
+A rare basket that was _Mother_ packed yester-morrow for daft _Madge_.
+First went in a piece of beef, and then a goodly string of salt ling
+(for _Lent_ is nigh at hand [Note 1]), a little bottle of cinnamon
+water, divers pots of conserves and honey, a roll of butter, a
+half-dozen of eggs (which at this present are ill to come by, for the
+hens will scarce lay this frost weather); and two of the new foreign
+fruit called oranges [first introduced in 1568], which have been of late
+brought from abroad, and _Ned_ did bring unto _Mother_ a little basket
+of them.
+
+We had an ill walk, for there hath been frost after snow, and the roads
+be slippy as they were greased with butter.  Howbeit, we come at last
+safe to _Madge's_ door, and there found daft _Madge_ in a great chair
+afore the fire, propped up of pillows, and old _Madge_ her grandmother
+sat a-sewing, with her horn-glasses across her nose, and by her old
+_Isaac Crewdson_, that is daft _Madge_ her grandfather of the other
+side.  She smiled all o'er her face when she saw us, and did feebly clap
+her hands, as she is wont to do when rare pleased.
+
+"Good morrow, _Madge_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "See thou, my Lady
+_Lettice_ hath sent thee a basket of good things, to strengthen thee up
+a bit."
+
+_Madge_ took Aunt _Joyce's_ hand, and kissed it.
+
+"They'll be good, but your faces be better," saith she.
+
+Old _Madge_ gat her up, and bustled about, unpacking of the basket, and
+crying out o' pleasure as she came to each thing and told what it were.
+But daft _Madge_ seemed not much to care what were therein, though she
+was ever wont dearly to love sweets, there being (I reckon) so few
+pleasures she had wit for.  Only she sat still, gazing from Aunt _Joyce_
+to me, and smiling on us.
+
+"What art thinking, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+For, natural [idiot] though she be, _Madge_ is alway thinking.  'Tis
+very nigh as though there were a soul within her which tried hard to see
+through the smoked glass of her poor brains.  Nay, I take it, so there
+is.
+
+"I were thinking," saith she, "a-looking on your faces, what like it'll
+be to see His Face."
+
+_Madge_ hath rarely any name for God.  It is mostly "He."
+
+"Wouldst love to see it, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Shall," quoth she, "right soon.  He sent me word, Mistress _Joyce_,
+yestereven."
+
+"Ay," saith old _Isaac_, "she reckons she's going."
+
+"Wilt be glad, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, softly.
+
+"Glad!" she makes answer.  "Eh, Mistress _Joyce_--glad!  Why, 'twill be
+better than plum-porridge!"
+
+Poor _Madge_!--she took the best symbol she had wit for.
+
+"Ay, my lass, it'll be better nor aught down here," saith old _Isaac_.
+"Plum-porridge and feather beds'll be nought to what they've getten up
+yonder.--You see, Mistress _Joyce_, we mun tell her by what she knows,
+poor maid!"
+
+"Ay, thou sayest well, _Isaac_," Aunt _Joyce_ made reply.  "_Madge_, thy
+mother's up yonder."
+
+"I know!" she saith, a-smiling.  "She'll come to th' gate when I knock.
+He'll sure send her to meet me.  She'll know 'tis me, ye ken.  It'd
+never do if some other maid gave my name, and got let in by mistake for
+me.  He'll send somebody as knows me to see I get in right.  Don't ye
+see, that's why we keep a-going one at once?  Somebody mun be always
+there that'll ken th' new ones."
+
+"I reckon the Lord will ken them, _Madge_," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Oh ay, He'll ken 'em, sure enough," saith _Madge_.  "But then, ye see,
+they'd feel lonely like if they waited to see any body they knew till
+they got right up to th' fur end: and th' angels 'd be stoppin' 'em and
+wanting to make sure all were right.  That wouldn't be pleasant.  So
+He'll send one o' them as knows 'em, and then th' angels 'll be
+satisfied, and not be stoppin' of 'em."
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ did not smile at poor _Madge's_ queer notions.  She saith
+at times that God Himself teaches them that men cannot teach.  And at
+after, quoth she, that it were but _Madge_ her way of saying, "He careth
+for you."
+
+"Dost thou think she is going, _Isaac_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  For old
+_Isaac_ is an herb-gatherer, or were while he could; and he wist a deal
+of physic.
+
+"Now, _Gaffer_, thou'lt never say nay!" cries _Madge_ faintly, as though
+it should trouble her sore if he thought she would live through it.
+
+"I'll say nought o' th' sort, _Madge_," said _Isaac_.  "Ay, Mistress
+_Joyce_.  She's been coming to the Lord this ever so long: and now, I
+take it, she's going to Him."
+
+"That's right!" saith _Madge_, with a comforted look, and laying of her
+head back on her pillows.  "It would be sore to get right up to th'
+gate, and then an angel as one didn't know just put his head forth, and
+say, `Th' Master says 'tis too soon, _Madge_: thou must not come in yet.
+Thou'lt have to walk a bit outside.'  Eh, but I wouldn't like yon!"
+
+"He'll not leave thee outside, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Eh, I hope not!" quoth _Madge_, as regretfully.  "I do want to see Him
+so.  I'd like to see if He looks rested like after all He bare for a
+poor daft maid.  And I want to know if them bad places is all healed up
+in His hands and feet, and hurt Him no more now.  I'd like to see for
+myself, ye ken."
+
+"Ay, _Madge_, they're healed long ago," saith _Isaac_.
+
+"Well, I count so," saith she, "for 'tis a parcel o' _Sundays_ since
+first time thou told me of 'em: still, I'd like to see for myself."
+
+"Thou'lt see for thyself," saith _Isaac_.  "Th' Lord's just th' same up
+yonder that He were down here."
+
+"Well, I reckon so," quoth _Madge_, in a tone of wonder.  "Amn't I th'
+same maid up at th' Hall as I am here?"
+
+"Ay, but I mean He's as good as ever He were," _Isaac_ makes answer.
+"He were right good, He were, to yon poor gaumering [silly] _Thomas_,--
+eh, but he were a troublesome chap, was _Thomas_!  He said he wouldn't
+believe it were th' Lord without he stuck his hand right into th' bad
+place of His side.  He were a hard one to deal wi', was yon _Thomas_."
+
+"Did He let him stick it in?" saith _Madge_, opening her eyes.
+
+"Yea, He told him to come and stick't in, if he could not believe
+without: but he mun have been a dizard [foolish man], that he couldn't--
+that's what I think," quoth old _Isaac_.
+
+"Was he daft?" saith _Madge_.
+
+"Well, nay, I reckon not," saith he.
+
+"I'll tell ye how it were," saith she.  "His soul was daft--that's it--
+right th' inside of him, ye ken."
+
+"Ay, I reckon thou'rt about right," quoth _Isaac_.
+
+"Well, I wouldn't have wanted that," saith she.  "I'd have wist by His
+face and the way He said `Good morrow, _Thomas_!'  I'd never have wanted
+to hurt Him more to see whether it were Him.  So He'd rather be hurt
+than leave _Thomas_ a-wondering!  Well--it were just like Him."
+
+"He's better than men be, _Madge_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, tenderly.
+
+"That's none so much to say, Mistress _Joyce_," saith _Madge_.  "Men's
+bad uns.  And some's rare bad uns.  So's women, belike.  I'd liever ha'
+th' door betwixt."
+
+_Madge_ hath alway had a strange fantasy to shut the half-door betwixt
+her and them she loveth not.  There be very few she will let come
+withinside.  I reckon them that may might be counted of her fingers.
+
+"Well, _Madge_, there shall be no need to shut to the door in Heaven,"
+saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "The gates be never shut by day; and there is no
+night there."
+
+"They've no night!  Eh, that's best thing ever you told me yet!" quoth
+_Madge_.  "I canna 'bide th' dark.  It'll be right bonnie, it will!"
+
+Softly Aunt _Joyce_ made answer.  "`Thine eyes shall see the King in His
+beauty; they shall behold the Land that is very far off.'"
+
+_Madge's_ head came up from the pillow.  "Eh, that's grand!  And that's
+Him?"
+
+"Ay, my maid."
+
+"Ay, that's like," saith she.  "It couldn't be nobody else.  And Him
+that could make th' roses and lilies mun be good to look at.  'Tisn't
+always so now: but I reckon they've things tidy up yon.  They'll fit
+like, ye ken.  But, Mistress _Joyce_, do ye tell me, will us be any
+wiser up yon?"
+
+I saw the water in Aunt _Joyce's_ eyes, as she arose; and she bent down
+and kissed _Madge_ on the brow.
+
+"Dear heart," quoth she, "thou shalt know Him then as well as He knows
+thee.  Is that plenty, _Madge_?"
+
+"I reckon 'tis a bit o' t'other side," saith _Madge_, with her eyes
+gleaming.  But when I came to kiss her the next minute, quoth
+she--"Mistress _Milisent_, saw ye e'er Mistress _Joyce_ when she had
+doffed her?"
+
+"Ay, _Madge_," said I, marvelling what notion was now in her poor brain.
+
+"And," saith she, "be there any wings a-growing out of her shoulders?
+Do tell me.  I'd like to know how big they were by now."
+
+"Nay, _Madge_; I never saw any."
+
+"No did ye?" quoth she, in a disappointed tone.  "I thought they'd have
+been middling grown by now.  But may-be He keeps th' wings till we've
+got yon?  Ay, I reckon that's it.  She'll have 'em all right, some day."
+
+And _Madge_ seemed satisfied.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XVI.
+Yester-morn, Dr _Bell_ being at church, _Mother_ was avised to ask him,
+if it might stand with his conveniency, to look in on _Madge_ the next
+time he rideth that way, and see if aught might be done for her.  He
+saith in answer that he should be a-riding to _Thirlmere_ early this
+morrow, and would so do: and this even, on his way home, he came in
+hither to tell _Mother_ his thought thereon.  'Tis even as we feared,
+for he saith there is no doubt that _Madge_ is dying, nor shall she
+overlive many days.  But right sorry were we to hear him say that he did
+marvel if she or _Blanche Lewthwaite_ should go the first.
+
+"Why, Doctor!" saith _Mother_, "I never reckoned _Blanche_ so far gone
+as that."
+
+"May-be not when you saw her, Lady _Lettice_," saith he.  "But--women be
+so perverse!  Why, the poor wretch might have lived till this summer
+next following, or even (though I scarce think it) have tided o'er
+another winter, but she must needs take it into her foolish head to rush
+forth into the garden, to say a last word to somebody, a frosty bitter
+even some ten days back, with never so much as a kerchief tied o'er her
+head; and now is she laid of her bed, as was the only thing like, and
+may scarce breathe with the inflammation of her lungs.  She _may_ win
+through, but verily I look not for it."
+
+"Poor heart!  I will go and see her," saith _Mother_.
+
+"Ay, do so," saith he.  "Poor foolish soul!--as foolish in regard of her
+health as of her happiness."
+
+This even, I being the first in our chamber, was but making ready my
+gown with a clean partlet [ruff] for to-morrow, when _Mother_ come in.
+
+"_Milly_," she saith, "I shall go (if the Lord will) to see _Blanche_
+to-morrow, and I would have thee go withal."
+
+I guess _Mother_ saw that I did somewhat shrink from the thought.  In
+truth, though I have seen _Blanche_ in church, and know how she looketh,
+yet I have never yet spoke with her sithence she came home, and I feel
+fearful, as though I were going into a chamber where was somewhat might
+hurt me.
+
+"My _Milisent_," saith _Mother_--and that is what she calls me at her
+tenderest--"I would not hurt thee but for thine own good.  And I know,
+dear heart, that few matters do more good than for a sinner to be shown
+that whereto he might have come, if the Lord had not hedged up his way
+with thorns.  'Tis not alway--I might say 'tis not often--that we be
+permitted to see whither the way should have led that the Father would
+not have us to take.  And, my dear heart, thou art of thy nature so like
+thy foolish mother, that I can judge well what should be good for thee."
+
+"Nay, _Mother_, dear heart!  I pray you, call not yourself names," said
+I, kissing her hand.
+
+"I shall be of my nature foolish, _Milly_, whether I do so call myself
+or no," saith _Mother_, laughing.
+
+"And truly, the older I grow, the more foolish I think myself in my
+young days."
+
+"Shall I so do, _Mother_, when I am come to your years?" said I, also
+laughing.
+
+"I hope so, _Milly_," saith she.  "I am afeared, if no, thy wisdom shall
+then be small."
+
+                                         SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XVII.
+I have seen _Blanche Lewthwaite_, and I do feel to-night as though I
+should never laugh again.  Verily, O my God, the way of the
+transgressors is hard!
+
+She lies of her bed, scarce able to speak, and that but of an hoarse
+whisper.  Dr _Bell_ hath given order that she shall not be suffered to
+talk but to make known her wants or to relieve her mind, though folk may
+talk to her so long as they weary her not.  We came in, brought of
+_Alice_, and _Mother_ sat down by the bed, while I sat in the window
+with _Alice_.
+
+_Blanche_ looked up at _Mother_ when she spake some kindly words unto
+her.
+
+"I am going, Lady _Lettice_!" was the first thing she said.
+
+"I do trust, dear heart, if the Lord will, Dr _Bell's_ skill may yet
+avail for thee," saith _Mother_.  "But if not, _Blanche_--"
+
+_Blanche_ interrupted her impatiently, with a question whereof the tone,
+yet more than the words, made my blood run cold.
+
+"_Whither_ am I going?"
+
+"Dear _Blanche_," said _Mother_, "the Lord _Jesus Christ_ is as good and
+as able to-day as ever He were."
+
+There was a little impatient movement of her head.
+
+"Too late!"
+
+"Never too late for Him," saith _Mother_.
+
+"Too late for me," _Blanche_ made answer.  "You mind the text--last
+_Sunday_.  I loved idols--after them I _would_ go!"
+
+She spoke with terrible pauses, caused by that hard, labouring breath.
+
+_Mother_ answered, as I knew, from the Word of God.
+
+"`Yet return again to me,' saith the Lord."
+
+"I cannot return.  I never came."
+
+"Then `come unto Me, all ye that are weary and laden.'  `The Son of Man
+is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'"
+
+_Blanche_ made no answer.  She only lay still, her eyes fixed on
+_Mother_, which did essay for to show her by God's Word that she might
+yet be saved if she so would.  Methought when _Mother_ stayed, and rose
+to kiss her as she came thence, that surely _Blanche_ could want no
+more.  Her only word to _Mother_ was--
+
+"Thanks."
+
+Then she beckoned to me, and I came and kissed her.  _Mother_ was gone
+to speak with Mistress _Lewthwaite_, and _Alice_ withal.  _Blanche_ and
+I were alone.
+
+"Close!" she said: and I bent mine ear to her lips.  "Very kind--Lady
+_Lettice_.  But--too late."
+
+"O _Blanche_!"  I was beginning: but her thin weak hand on mine arm
+stayed further speech.
+
+"Hush!  _Milisent_--thank God--thou art not as I.  Thank God--and keep
+clean.  Too late for me.  Good-bye."
+
+"O _Blanche_, _Blanche_!"  I sobbed through my tears.  The look in her
+eyes was dreadful to me.  "The Lord would fain have thee saved, and
+wherefore dost thou say `too late'?"
+
+"I want it not," she whispered.
+
+"_Blanche_," I cried in horror.  "What canst thou mean?  Not want to be
+saved from Hell!  Not want to go to Heaven!"
+
+"From Hell--ay.  But not--to go to Heaven."
+
+"But there is none other place!" cried I.
+
+"I know.  Would there were!"
+
+I believe I stood and gazed on her in amaze.  I could not think what
+were her meaning, and I marvelled if she were not feather-brained
+[wandering, light-headed] somewhat.
+
+"God is in Heaven," she said.  "I do not want God.  Nor He me."
+
+I could not tell what to say.  I was too horrified.
+
+"There was a time," saith _Blanche_, in that dreadful whisper, which
+seemed me hoarser than ever, "He would--have saved me--then.  But I
+would not.  Now--too late.  Thanks!  Go--good-bye."
+
+And then _Mother_ called me.
+
+I think that hoarse whisper will ring in mine ears, and those awful eyes
+will haunt me, till the day I die.  And this might have been my portion!
+
+No word of all this said I to _Mother_.  As Aunt _Joyce_ saith, she
+picks up everything with her heart, and _Father_ hath alway bidden us
+maids to spare her such trouble as we may--which same he ever doth
+himself.  But I found my Lady _Stafford_ in the little chamber, and I
+threw me down on the floor at her feet, and gave my tears leave to have
+their way.  My Lady always seemeth to conceive any in trouble, and she
+worketh not at you to comfort you afore you be ready to be comforted.
+She only stroked mine head once or twice, as though to show me that she
+felt for me: until I pushed back my tears, and could look up and tell
+her what it were that troubled me.
+
+"What ought I to have said, my Lady?" quoth I.
+
+"No words of thine, _Milisent_," she made answer.  "That valley of the
+shadow is below the sound of any comfort of men.  The words that will
+reach down there are the words of God.  And not always they."
+
+"But--O my Lady, think you the poor soul can be right--that it is too
+late for her?"
+
+"There is only One that can answer thee that question," she saith.  "Let
+us cry mightily unto Him.  So long as there is life, there may be hope.
+There be on whom even in this world the Lord seems to have shut His
+door.  But I think they be commonly hardened sinners, that have resisted
+His good Spirit through years of sinning.  There is no unforgivable sin
+save that hard unbelief which will not be forgiven.  Dear _Milisent_,
+let us remember His word, that if two of us shall agree on earth as
+touching anything they shall ask, it shall be done.  And He willeth not
+the death of a sinner."
+
+We made that compact: and ever sithence mine heart hath been, as it
+were, crying out to God for poor _Blanche_.  I cannot tell if it be
+foolish to feel thus or no, but it doth seem as though I were verily
+guilty touching her; as though the saving of me had been the loss of
+her.  O Lord God, have mercy upon her!
+
+                                         SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XXII.
+This cold even were we maids and _Ned_ bidden to a gathering at Master
+_Murthwaite's_, it being _Temperance_ her birthday, and she is now two
+and twenty years of age.  We had meant for to call on our way at _Mere
+Lea_, to ask how was _Blanche_, but we were so late of starting (I need
+not blame any) that there was no time left, and we had to foot it at a
+good pace.  Master _Murthwaite_ dwells about half a mile on this side of
+_Keswick_, so we had a middling good walk.  There come, we found
+_Gillian Armstrong_ and her brethren, but none from _Mere Lea_.
+_Gillian_ said her mother had been thither yester-morn, when she
+reckoned _Blanche_ to be something better: and they were begun to hope
+(though Dr _Bell_ would not yet say so much) that she might tide o'er
+her malady.  A pleasant even was it, but quiet: for Master _Murthwaite_
+is a strong _Puritan_ (as folk do now begin to call them that be strict
+in religion,) and loveth not no manner of noisy mirth: nor do I think
+any of us were o'er inclined to vex him in that matter.  I was not,
+leastwise.  We brake up about eight of the clock, or a little past, and
+set forth of our way home.  Not many yards, howbeit, were we gone, when
+a sound struck on our ears that made my blood run chill.  From the old
+church at _Keswick_ came the low deep toll of the passing bell.
+
+"One,--two!"--then a pause.  A woman.
+
+There were only two women, so far as I knew, that it was like to be.  I
+counted every stroke with my breath held.  Would it pause at the
+nineteen which should point to daft _Madge_, or go on to the twenty-one
+which should mean _Blanche Lewthwaite_?
+
+"Eighteen--nineteen--twenty--twenty-one!"
+
+Then the bell stopped.
+
+"O _Ned_, it is _Blanche_!" cries _Edith_.
+
+"Ay, I reckon so," saith _Ned_, sadly.
+
+We hurried on then to the end of the lane which leads up to _Mere Lea_.
+Looking up at the house, whereof the upper windows can be seen, we saw
+all dark and closed up: and in _Blanche's_ window, where of late the
+light had burned day and night, there was now only pitch darkness.  She
+needed no lights now: for she was either in the blessed City where they
+need no light of the sun, or else cast forth into the blackness of
+darkness for ever.  Oh, which should it be?
+
+"_Milisent_!" said a low, sorrowful voice beside me; and mine hand
+clasped _Robin Lewthwaite's_.
+
+"When was it, _Robin_?"
+
+"Two hours gone," he saith, mournfully.
+
+"_Robin_," I could not help whispering, "said she aught comfortable at
+the last?"
+
+"She never spake at all for the last six hours," he made answer.  "But
+the last word she did say was--the publican's prayer, _Milly_."
+
+"Then there is hope!"  I thought, but I said it not to _Robin_.
+
+So we came home and told the sorrowful tidings.
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XXV.
+I was out in the garden this morrow, picking of snowdrops to lay round
+_Blanche's_ coffin.  My back was to the gate, when all suddenly I heard
+Dr _Bell's_ voice say--"_Milisent_, is that thou?"
+
+I rose up and ran to the gate, where he sat on his horse.
+
+"Well, _Milly_," saith he, "the shutters are up at _Mere Lea_."
+
+"Ay, we know it, Doctor," said I, sadly.
+
+"Poor maid!" saith he.  "A life flung away!  And it might have been so
+different!"
+
+I said nought, for the tears burned under mine eyelids, and there was a
+lump in my throat that let me from speech.
+
+"I would thou wouldst say, _Milly_," goeth on Dr _Bell_, "to my Lady
+and Mistress _Joyce_, that daft _Madge_ (as methinks) shall not pass the
+day, and she hath a rare fantasy to see Mistress _Joyce_ once more.  See
+if it may be compassed.  Good morrow."
+
+I went in forthwith and sought Aunt _Joyce_, which spake no word, but
+went that instant moment and tied on her hood and cloak: and so did I
+mine.
+
+'Twas nigh ten o' the clock when we reached old _Madge's_ hut.
+
+We found daft _Madge_ in her bed, and seemingly asleep.  But old _Madge_
+said 'twas rather a kind of heaviness, whence she would rouse if any
+spake to her.
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ leaned over her and kissed her brow.
+
+"Eh, 'tis Mistress _Joyce_!" saith _Madge_, feebly, as she oped her
+eyes.  "That's good.  He's let me have _all_ I wanted."
+
+"Art comfortable, _Madge_?"
+
+"Close to th' gate.  I'm lookin' to see 't open and _Mother_ come out.
+Willn't she be pleased?"
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ wiped her eyes, but said nought.
+
+"Say yon again, Mistress _Joyce_," saith _Madge_.
+
+"What, my dear heart?"
+
+"Why, _you_," saith _Madge_.  "Over seeing th' King.  Dinna ye ken?"
+
+"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, but ye ha' set her up some wi' that," saith old
+_Madge_.  "She's talked o' nought else sin', scarce."
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ said it once more.  "`Thine eyes shall see the King in His
+beauty: they shall behold the Land that is very far off.'"
+
+"'Tis none so fur off now," quoth _Madge_.  "I've getten a many miles
+nearer sin' you were hither."
+
+"I think thou hast, _Madge_," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Ay.  An' 'tis a good place," saith she.  "'Tis a good place here, where
+ye can just lie and watch th' gate.  They'll come out, they bonnie folk,
+and fetch me in anon: and _Mother's_ safe sure to be one."
+
+"Ah, _Madge_!  Thou wist whither thou goest," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Why, for sure!" saith she.  "He's none like to send me nowhere else but
+where He is.  Dun ye think I'd die for somebody I didn't want?"
+
+She saith not much else, but seemed as though she sank back into that
+heavy way she had afore.  But at last, when we were about to depart, she
+roused up again a moment.
+
+"God be wi' ye both," said she.  "I'm going th' longer journey, but
+there's t' better home at t' end.  May-be I shall come to th' gate to
+meet you.  Mind you dunnot miss, Mistress _Milly_.  Mistress _Joyce_,
+she's safe."
+
+"I will try not to miss, _Madge_," I answered through my tears, "God
+helping me."
+
+"He'll help ye if ye want helpin'," saith Madge.
+
+"Only He'll none carry you if ye willn't come.  Dunna throw away good
+gold for dead leaves Mistress _Milly_.  God be wi' ye!"
+
+We left her there--"watching the gate."
+
+                                         SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XXVI.
+This morrow, as I came down the stairs, what should I see but Aunt
+_Joyce_, a-shaking the snow from her cloak and pulling off her pattens.
+
+"Why, _Aunt_!" cried I.  "Have you been forth thus early?"
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ turned on me a very solemn face.
+
+"_Milly_," saith she, "_Madge_ is in at the gate."
+
+"O _Aunt_! have you seen her die?"
+
+"I have seen her rise to life," she made answer.  "Child, the Lord grant
+to thee and me such a death as hers!  It seemed as though, right at the
+last moment, the mist that had veiled it all her earth-time cleared from
+the poor brain, and the light poured in on her like a flood.  `The King
+in His beauty!  The King in His beauty!' were the last words she spake,
+but in such a voice of triumph and gladness as I never heard from her
+afore.  O _Milly_, my darling child! how vast the difference between the
+being `saved so as by fire,' and the abundant entrance of the good and
+faithful servant!  Let us not rest short of it."
+
+And methought, as I followed Aunt _Joyce_ into the breakfast-chamber,
+that God helping me, I would not.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Note 1.  For many years after the Reformation the use of fish was made
+compulsory in Lent, from the wish to benefit the fish trade.  A licence
+to eat flesh in Lent (obtained from the Queen, not the Pope) cost 40
+shillings in 1599.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER NINE.
+
+WALTER LEARNS TO SAY NO.
+
+  "Betray mean terror of ridicule,--thou shalt find fools enough to mock
+  thee:--
+
+  "But answer thou their laughter with contempt, and the scoffers shall
+  lick thy feet."
+
+  Martin Farquhar Tupper.
+
+(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
+
+                                             SELWICK HALL, MARCH THE II.
+Never, methinks, saw I any so changed as our _Milly_ by the illness and
+death of poor _Blanche_.  From being the merriest of all us, methinks
+she is become well-nigh the saddest.  I count it shall pass in time, but
+she is not like _Milisent_ at this present.  All we, indeed, have much
+felt the same: but none like her.  I never did reckon her so much to
+love _Blanche_.
+
+I have marvelled divers times of late, what did bring _Robin Lewthwaite_
+here so oft; and I did somewhat in mine own mind, rhyme his name with
+_Milisent's_, for all (as I find on looking) my damsel hath set down
+never a time he came.  The which, as methinks, is somewhat significant.
+So I was little astonied this afternoon to be asked of _Robin_, as we
+two were in the garden, if I reckoned _Milisent_ had any care touching
+him.
+
+"Thou wist, _Edith_," saith he, "I did alway love her: but when yon
+rogue came in the way betwixt that did end all by the beguilement of our
+poor _Blanche_, I well-nigh gave up all hope, for methought she were
+fair enchanted by him."
+
+"I think she so were, for a time, _Robin_," said I, "until she saw
+verily what manner of man he were: and that it were not truly he that
+she had loved, but the man she had accounted him."
+
+"Well," saith _Robin_, "I would like to be the man she accounted him.
+Thinkest there is any chance?"
+
+"Thou wist I can but guess," I made answer, "for _Milisent_ is very
+close of that matter, though she be right open on other: but I see no
+reason, _Robin_, wherefore thou shouldst not win her favour, and I do
+ensure thee I wish thee well therein."
+
+"_Edith_, thou art an angel!" crieth he out: and squeezed mine hand till
+I wished him the other side the Border.
+
+"Nay!" said I, a-laughing: "what then is _Milly_?"
+
+"Oh, aught thou wilt," saith he, also laughing, "that is sweet, and
+fair, and delightsome.  Dost know, _Edith_, our _Nym_ goeth about to be
+a soldier?  He shall leave us this next month."
+
+"A soldier!" cried I: for in very deed _Nym_ and a soldier were two
+matters that ran not together to my thoughts.  Howbeit, I was not sorry
+to hear that _Nym_ should leave this vicinage, and thereby cease
+tormenting of our _Helen_.  The way he gazeth on her all the sermon-time
+in church should make me fit to poison him, were I she, and desired not
+(as I know she doth not) that he should be a-running after me.  But,
+_Nym_ a soldier!  I could as soon have looked to see _Moses_ play the
+virginals.  Why, he is feared of his own shadow, very nigh: and is
+worser for ghosts than even _Austin Park_.  I do trust, if we need any
+defence here in _Derwentdale_, either the Queen's Majesty shall not send
+_Nym_ to guard us, or else that his men shall have stouter hearts than
+he.  An hare were as good as _Nym Lewthwaite_.
+
+Sithence I writ what goeth afore, have we all been rare gladded by
+_Walter's_ coming, which was just when the dusk had fallen.  He looketh
+right well of his face, and is grown higher, and right well-favoured:
+but, eh me, so fine!  I felt well-nigh inclined to lout [courtesy] me
+low unto this magnifical gentleman, rather than take him by the hand and
+kiss him.  _Ned_ saith--
+
+"The Queen's Highness' barge ahoy!--all lined and padded o' velvet!--and
+in the midst the estate [the royal canopy] of cloth of gold!  Off with
+your caps, my hearties!"
+
+_Walter_ laughed, and took it very well.  Saith Aunt _Joyce_, when he
+come to her--
+
+"_Wat_, how much art thou worth by the yard?"
+
+"Ten thousand pound, _Aunt_," saith he, boldly, and laughing.
+
+"Ha!" saith she, somewhat dry.  "I trust 'tis safe withinside, for I see
+it not without."
+
+                                              SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE IV.
+Yesterday, being _Sunday_, was nought said touching _Wat_ and his ways:
+only all to church, of course, at matins and evensong, but this day no
+sermons.  This morrow, after breakfast, as we arose from the table,
+saith _Father_:--
+
+"_Walter_, my lad, thou and I must have some talk."
+
+"An' it like you, Sir," saith _Wat_.
+
+"Wouldst thou choose it rather without other ears?"
+
+"Not any way, I thank you, Sir."
+
+"Then," quoth _Father_, drawing of a chair afore the fire, "we may tarry
+as we be."
+
+_Walter_ sat him down in the chimney-corner; _Mother_, with her sewing,
+on the other side the fire; Aunt _Joyce_ in the place she best loveth,
+in the window.  Cousin _Bess_ and _Mynheer_ were gone on their
+occasions.  _Ned_ and we three maids were in divers parts of the
+chamber; _Ned_ carving of a wooden boat for _Anstace_ her little lad,
+and we at our sewing.
+
+"Wilt tell me, _Wat_," saith _Father_, "what years thou hast?"
+
+"Why, Sir," quoth he, "I reckon you know that something better than I;
+but I have alway been given to wit that the year of my birth was
+Mdlvii."  [1557.]
+
+"The which, sith thou wert born in _July_, makes thee now of two and
+twenty years," _Father_ makes answer.
+
+"I believe so much, Sir," saith _Walter_, that looked somewhat diverted
+at this beginning.
+
+"And thy wage at this time, from my Lord of _Oxenford_, is sixteen pound
+by the year?"  [Note 1.]
+
+"It is so, Sir," quoth _Wat_.
+
+"And what reckonest thy costs to be?"
+
+"In good sooth, Sir, I have not reckoned," saith he.
+
+"Go to--make a guess."
+
+_Wat_ did seem diseased thereat, and fiddled with his chain.  At the
+last (_Father_ keeping silence) he saith, looking up, with a flush of
+his brow--
+
+"To speak truth, Sir, I dare not."
+
+"Right, my lad," saith _Father_.  "Speak the truth, and let come of it
+what will.  But, in very deed, we must come to it, _Wat_.  This matter
+is like those wounds that 'tis no good to heal ere they be probed.  Nor
+knew I ever a chirurgeon to use the probe without hurting of his
+patient.  Howbeit, _Wat_, I will not hurt thee more than is need.  Tell
+me, dost thou think that all thy costs, of whatsoever kind, should go
+into two hundred pound by the year?"
+
+The red flush on _Wat's_ brow grew deeper.
+
+"I am afeared not, Sir," he made answer, of a low voice.
+
+"Should they go into three?"  _Wat_ hesitated, but seemed more diseased
+[uncomfortable] than ever.
+
+"Should four overlap them?"
+
+_Wat_ brake forth.
+
+"_Father_, I would you would scold me--I cannot stand it!  I should feel
+an hard whipping by far less than your terrible gentleness.  I know I
+have been a downright fool, and I have known it all the time: but what
+is a man to do?  The fellows laugh at you if you do not as all the rest.
+Then they come to one every day, with, `Here, _Louvaine_, lend me a
+sovereign,'--and `Look you, _Louvaine_, pay this bill for me,'--and they
+should reckon you the shabbiest companion ever lived, if you did it not,
+or if, having done it, you should ask them for it again."
+
+"_Wat_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_ from the window.
+
+"What so, _Aunt_?" quoth he.
+
+"Stand up a minute, and let me look at thee," saith she.
+
+_Walter_ did so, but with a look as though he marvelled what Aunt
+_Joyce_ would be at.
+
+"I would judge from thy face," quoth she, "if thou art the right lad
+come, or they have changed thee in _London_ town.  Our _Walter_ used to
+have his father's eyes and his mother's mouth.  Well, I suppose thou
+art: but I should scantly have guessed it from thy talk."
+
+"_Walter_," softly saith _Mother_, "thy father should never have so
+dealt when he were of thy years."
+
+"Lack-a-daisy!  I would have thought the world was turning round," quoth
+Aunt _Joyce_, "had I ever heard such a speech of _Aubrey_ at any years
+whatsoever."
+
+_Father_ listed this with some diversion, as methought from the set of
+his lips.
+
+"Well, I am not as good as _Father_," saith _Wat_.
+
+"Amen!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"But, _Aunt_, you are hard on a man.  See you not, all the fellows think
+you a coward if you dare not spend freely and act boldly?  Ay, and a
+miser belike."
+
+"Is it worser to be thought a coward than to be one?" saith _Father_.
+
+"Who be `all the fellows'?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "My Lord of _Burleigh_
+and my Lord _Hunsdon_ and Sir _Francis Walsingham_, I'll warrant you."
+
+"Now, _Aunt_!" saith _Walter_.  "Not grave old men like they!  My Lord
+of _Oxenford_, that is best-dressed man of all the Court, and spendeth
+an hundred pound by the year in gloves and perfumes only--"
+
+"Eh, _Wat_!" cries _Helen_: and _Mother_,--"_Walter_, my dear boy!"
+
+"'Tis truth, I do ensure you," saith he: "and Sir _Walter Raleigh_, one
+of the first wits in all _Europe_: and young _Blount_, that is high in
+the Queen's Majesty's favour: and my young Lord of _Essex_, unto whom
+she showeth good countenance.  'Tis not possible to lower one's self in
+the eyes of such men as these--and assuredly I should were I less
+free-handed."
+
+"My word, _Wat_, but thou hast fallen amongst an ill pack of hounds!"
+saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Then it is possible, or at least more possible, to lower thyself in our
+eyes, _Wat_?" saith _Father_.
+
+"_Father_, you make me to feel 'shamed of myself!" crieth _Wat_.  "Yet,
+think you, so should they when I were among them, if I should hold back
+from these very deeds."
+
+"Then is there no difference, my son," asks _Father_, still as gentle as
+ever, "betwixt being 'shamed for doing the right, and for doing the
+wrong?"
+
+"But--pardon me, Sir--you are not in it!" saith _Walter_.  "Do but
+think, what it should feel to be counted singular, and as a speckled
+bird, unlike all around."
+
+"Well!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, fervently, "I am five and fifty years of age
+this morrow; and have in my time done many a foolish deed: but I do
+thank Heaven that I was never so left to mine own folly as to feel any
+ambition to make one of a row of buttons!"
+
+I laughed--I could not choose.
+
+"You are a woman, _Aunt_," saith _Wat_.  "'Tis different with you."
+
+"I pay you good thanks, Master _Walter Louvaine_," quoth she, "for the
+finest compliment was ever paid me yet.  I am a woman (wherefore I thank
+God), and therefore (this young gentleman being testimony) have more
+bravery of soul than a man.  For that is what thy words come to, Master
+_Wat_; though I reckon thou didst not weigh them afore utterance.--Now,
+_Aubrey_, what art thou about to do with this lad?"
+
+"I fear there is but one thing to do," saith _Father_, and he fetched an
+heavy sigh.  "But let us reach the inwards of the matter first.  I
+reckon, _Walter_, thou hast many debts outstanding?"
+
+"I am afeared so, Sir," saith _Wat_,--which, to do him credit, did look
+heartily ashamed of himself.
+
+"To what sum shall they reach, thinkest?"
+
+_Wat_ fiddled with his chain, and fidgetted on his seat, and _Father_
+had need of some patience (which he showed rarely) ere he gat at the
+full figures.  It did then appear that our young gallant should have
+debts outstanding to the amount of nigh two thousand pounds.
+
+"But, _Wat_," saith _Helen_, looking sore puzzled, "how _couldst_ thou
+spend two thousand pounds when thou hadst but sixty-two in these four
+years?"
+
+"Maidens understand not the pledging of credit," saith _Ned_.  "See
+thou, _Nell_: I am a shop-keeper, and sell silk gowns; and thou wouldst
+have one that should cost an angel--"
+
+"Eh, _Ned_!" crieth she, and all we laughed.
+
+"Thou shalt not buy a silk gown under six angels at the very least.
+Leastwise, not clear silk: it should be all full of gum."
+
+"Go to!" saith _Ned_.  "Six angels, then--sixty if thou wilt.  (Dear
+heart, what costly matter women be!  I'll don my wife in camlet.)  Well,
+in thy purse is but two angels.  How then shalt thou get thy gown?"
+
+"Why, how can I?  I must do without it," saith she.
+
+"Most sweet _Helen_; sure thou earnest straight out of the Garden of
+_Eden_!  Dear heart, folks steer not in that quarter now o' days.  Thou
+comest to me for the gown, and I set down thy name in my books, that
+thou owest me six angels: and away goest thou with the silk, and turnest
+forth o' _Sunday_ as fine as a fiddler."
+
+"Well--and then?" saith she.
+
+"Then, with _Christmas_ in cometh my bill: and thou must pay the same."
+
+"But if I have no money?"
+
+"Then I lose six angels."
+
+"_Father_, is that honest?" saith _Helen_.
+
+"If thou hadst no reason to think thou shouldst have the money by
+_Christmas_, certainly not, my maid," he made answer.
+
+"Not honest, Sir!" saith _Wat_.
+
+"Is it so?" quoth _Father_.
+
+"Oh, look you, words mean different in the Court," crieth Aunt _Joyce_,
+"from what they do in _Derwent_-dale and at _Minster Lovel_.  If we pay
+not our debts here, we go to prison; and folks do but say, Served him
+right!  But if they pay them not there, why, the poor tailor and
+jeweller must feed their starving childre on the sight of my Lord of
+_Essex'_ gold lace, and the smell of my Lord of _Oxenford_ his perfumes.
+Do but think, what a rare supper they shall have!"
+
+"Now, hearken, _Walter_," saith _Father_.  "I must have thee draw up a
+list of all thy debts, what sum, for what purpose, and to whom owing:
+likewise a list of all debts due to thee."
+
+"But you would not ask for loans back, Sir?" cries _Wat_.
+
+"That depends on whom they were lent to," answers _Father_.  "If to a
+poor man that can scarce pay his way, no.  But if to my cousin of
+_Oxenford_ and such like gallants that have plenty wherewith to pay,
+then ay."
+
+"They would think it so mean, Sir!" saith _Walter_, diseasefully.
+
+"Let them so do," saith _Father_.  "I shall sleep quite as well."
+
+"But really, Sir, I could not remember all."
+
+"Then set down what thou canst remember."
+
+_Walter_ looked as if he would liefer do aught else.
+
+"And, my son," saith _Father_, so gently that it was right tender, "I
+must take thee away from the Court."
+
+"Sir!" crieth _Walter_, in a voice of very despair.
+
+"I can see thou art not he that can stand temptation.  I had hoped
+otherwise.  But 'tis plain that this temptation, at the least, hath been
+too much for thee."
+
+_Wat's_ face was as though his whole life should be ruined if so were.
+
+"Come, _Wat_, take heart o' grace!" cries _Ned_.  "I wouldn't cruise in
+those muddy waters if thou shouldst pay me two thousand pound to do the
+same.  Think but of men scenting themselves--with aught but a stiff
+sea-breeze.  Pish!  And as to dancing, cap in hand, afore a woman, and
+calling her thine _Excellency_, or thy _Floweriness_, or thy
+Some-Sort-of-Foolery, why, I'd as lief strike to a _Spanish_ galleon,
+very nigh.  When I want a maid to wed me, an' I ever do--at this present
+I don't--I shall walk straight up to her like a man, and say, `Mistress
+_Cicely_ (or whatso she be named), I love you; will you wed me?'  And if
+she cannot see an honest man's love, or will not take it, without all
+that flummery, why, she isn't worth a pail o' sea-water: and I can get
+along without her, and I will."
+
+"Hurrah for _Ned_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "'Tis a comfort to find we have
+one man in the family."
+
+"I trust we may have two, in time," quoth _Father_.  "_Wat_, my lad, I
+know this comes hard: and as I count thee not wicked, but weak, I would
+fain help thee all I may.  But thou canst not be suffered to forget that
+my fortune is but three hundred pound by the year; and I have yet three
+daughters to portion.  I could not pay thy debts without calling in that
+for which thou hast pledged my credit--for it is mine, _Wat_, rather
+than thine, seeing thine own were thus slender."
+
+"But, Sir!" crieth _Wat_, "that were punishing you for mine
+extravagance.  I never dreamed of that!"
+
+"Come, he is opening his eyes a bit at last," saith Aunt _Joyce_ to me,
+that was next her.
+
+"May-be, _Wat_," saith _Father_, with a kindly smile, "it had been
+better if thou hadst dreamed thereof a little sooner.  I think, my boy,
+it will be punishment enough for one of thy nature but to 'bide at home,
+and to see the straits whereto thou hast put them that love thee best."
+
+"Punishment!" saith Wat, in a low, 'shamed voice.  "Yes, _Father_, the
+worst you could devise."
+
+"Well, then we will say no more," saith _Father_.  "Only draw up those
+lists, _Walter_, and let me have them quickly."
+
+_Father_ then left the chamber: and _Wat_ threw him down at _Mother's_
+knee.
+
+"O _Mother_, _Mother_, if I had but thought sooner!" crieth he.  "If I
+could but have stood out when they laughed at me!--for that, in very
+deed, were the point.  I did begin with keeping within my wage: and then
+all they mocked and flouted me, and told me no youth of any spirit
+should do so: and--and I gave way.  Oh, if I had but held on!"
+
+_Mother_ softly stroked _Wat's_ gleaming fair hair, that is so like
+hers.
+
+"My boy!" she saith, "didst thou ask for God's strength, or try to hold
+on in thine own?"
+
+_Walter_ made no answer in words, but methought I saw the water stand in
+his eyes.
+
+When _Mother_ and _Wat_ were both gone forth, Aunt _Joyce_ saith,--"I
+cannot verily tell how it is that folk should have a fantasy that 'tis a
+shame to be 'feared of doing ill, and no shame at all to be 'feared of
+being laughed at.  Why, one day when I were at home, there was little
+_Jack Bracher_ a-stealing apples in mine orchard: and _Hewitt_ (that is
+Aunt _Joyce's_ chief gardener) caught him and brought him to me.
+_Jack_, he sobbed and thrust his knuckles into his eyes, and said it
+were all the other lads.  `But what did the other lads to thee?' quoth
+I.  `Oh, they dared me!' crieth he.  `They said I durst not take 'em:
+and so I had to do it.'  Now, heard you ever such stuff in your born
+days?  Why, they might have dared me till this time next year, afore
+ever I had turned thief for their daring."
+
+"But then, _Aunt_, you see," saith _Ned_, a twinkle in his eyes, "you
+are but a woman.  That alters the case."
+
+"Just so, _Ned_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, the fun in her eyes as in his: "I
+am one of the weaker sex, I know."
+
+"Now, I'll tell you," saith _Ned_, "how they essayed it with me, when I
+first joined my ship.  They dared me--my mates, wot you--to go up to the
+masthead, afore I had been aboard a day.  `Now, look you here, mates,'
+says I.  `When the Admiral bids me, I'll scale every mast in the ship;
+and if I break my neck, I shall but have done my duty.  But I'll do
+nought because I'm dared, and so that you know.'  Well, believe me who
+will, but they cheered me as if I had taken a galleon laden with ducats.
+And I've been their white son [favourite] ever since."
+
+"Of course!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "They alway do.  'Tis men which have
+no true courage that dare others: and when they come on one that hath,
+they hold him the greater hero because 'tis not in themselves to do the
+like.  _Ned_, lad, thou art thy father's son.  I know not how _Wat_ gat
+changed."
+
+"Well, _Aunt_, I hope I am," saith _Ned_.  "I would liefer copy _Father_
+than any man ever I knew."
+
+"Hold thou there, and thou shalt make a fair copy," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+We wrought a while in silence, when Aunt _Joyce_ saith--
+
+"Sure, if men's eyes were not blinded by the sin of their nature, they
+should perceive the sheer folly of fearing the lesser thing, and yet
+daring the greater.  'Feared of the laughter of fools, that is but as
+the crackling of thorns under the pot: and not 'feared of the wrath of
+Him that liveth for ever and ever--which is able, when He hath killed,
+to destroy body and soul in Hell.  Oh the folly and blindness of human
+nature!"
+
+                                             SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE VII.
+Was ever any creature so good as this dear Aunt _Joyce_ of ours?  This
+morrow, when all were gone on their occasions saving her and _Father_,
+and _Nell_ and me, up cometh she to _Father_, that was sat with a book
+of his hand, and saith--
+
+"_Aubrey_!"
+
+_Father_ laid down his book, and looked up on her.
+
+"Thou wert so good as to tell us three mornings gone," saith she, "that
+thine income was three hundred pound by the year.  Right interesting it
+were, for I never knew the figure aforetime."
+
+"Well?" saith _Father_, laughing.
+
+"But I hope," continueth she, "thou didst not forget (what thou didst
+know aforetime) that mine is two thousand."
+
+"My dear _Joyce_!" saith _Father_, and held forth his hand.  "My true
+sister!  I will not pretend to lack knowledge of thy meaning.  Thou
+wouldst have me draw on thee for help to pay _Walter's_ debts--"
+
+"Nay, not so," saith she, "for I would pay them all out.  Look thou, to
+do the same at once should inconvenience me but a trifle, and to do it
+at twice, nothing at all."
+
+"But, dear _Joyce_, I cannot," quoth he.  "Nay, not for thy sake--I know
+thou wouldst little allow such a plea--but for _Walter's_ own.  To do
+thus should be something to ease myself, at the cost of a precious
+lesson that might last him his whole life."
+
+"I take thy meaning," saith she, "yet I cannot sleep at ease if I do not
+somewhat.  Give me leave to help a little, if no more.  Might not that
+be done, yet leave _Wat_ his lesson?"
+
+"Well, dear heart, this I promise thee," saith _Father_, "that in case
+we go a-begging, we will come first to the _Manor House_ at _Minster
+Lovel_."
+
+"After which you shall get no farther," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "But I want
+more than that, _Aubrey_.  I would not of my good will tarry to help
+till thou and _Lettice_ be gone a-begging.  I can give the maids a
+gown-piece by now and then, of course, and so ease my mind enough to get
+an half-hour's nap: but what am I to do for a night's rest?"
+
+_Father_ laughed.  "Come, a word in thine ear," saith he.
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ bent her head down, but then pursed up her lips as though
+she were but half satisfied at last.
+
+"Will that not serve?" saith _Father_, smiling on her.
+
+"Ay, so far as it goeth," she made answer: "yet it is but an if,
+_Aubrey_?"
+
+"Life is a chain of ifs, dear _Joyce_," saith he.
+
+"Truth," saith she, and stood a moment as if meditating.  "Well," saith
+she at last, "`half a loaf is better than no bread at all,' so I reckon
+I must be content with what I have.  But if I send thee an whole flock
+of sheep one day, and to _Lettice_ the next an hundred ells of velvet,
+prithee be not astonied."
+
+_Father_ laughed, and said nought of that sort should ever astonish him,
+for he knew Aunt _Joyce_ by far too well.
+
+                                              SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE IX.
+We were sat this morrow all in the little chamber at work, and I
+somewhat marvelled what was ado with _Mother_, for smiles kept ever and
+anon flitting across her face, as though she were mighty diverted with
+the flax she was spinning: and I guessed her thoughts should be
+occupying somewhat that was of mirthful sort.  At last saith Aunt
+_Joyce_:--
+
+"_Lettice_, what is thy mind a-laughing at?  I have kept count, and thou
+hast smiled eleven times this half-hour.  Come, give us a share, good
+fellow."
+
+_Mother_ laughed right out then, and saith--
+
+"Why, _Joyce_, I knew not I was thus observed of a spy.  Howbeit, what
+made me smile, that shall you know.  Who is here to list me?"
+
+All the women of the house were there but _Milisent_; of the men none
+save _Ned_.
+
+"Aubrey hath had demand made of him for our _Milly_," saith _Mother_.
+
+"Heave he!" cries _Ned_.  "Who wants her?"
+
+"Good lack, lad, hast no eyes in thine head?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_.
+"_Robin Lewthwaite_, of course.  I can alway tell when young folks be
+after that game."
+
+"Eh deary me!" cries Cousin _Bess_.  "Why, I ne'er counted one of our
+lasses old enough to be wed.  How doth time slip by, for sure!"
+
+"I scarce looked for _Milly_ to go the first," saith Mistress _Martin_.
+
+I reckon she thought _Nell_ should have come afore, for she is six years
+elder than _Milly_: and so she might, would she have taken _Nym
+Lewthwaite_, for _Father_ and _Mother_ were so rare good as leave her
+choose.  But I would not have taken _Nym_, so I cannot marvel at
+_Helen_.
+
+"You see, _Aunt_," saith _Ned_, answering Aunt _Joyce_, "I am not yet up
+to the game."
+
+"And what wilt choose by, when thou art?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with a
+little laugh.  "I know a young man that chose his wife for her comely
+eyebrows: and an other (save the mark!) by her _French_ hood.  Had I had
+no better cause than that last, I would have bought me a _French_ hood
+as fair, if I had need to send to _Paternoster_ Row [Note 2] for it, and
+feasted mine eyen thereon.  It should not have talked when I desired
+quietness, nor have threaped [scolded] at me when I did aught pleased it
+not."
+
+"That speech is rare like a man, _Joyce_," saith my Lady _Stafford_.
+
+"Dear heart, _Dulcie_, dost think I count all women angels, by reason I
+am one myself?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_.  "I know better, forsooth."
+
+"Methinks, _Aunt_, I shall follow your example," saith _Ned_, winking on
+me, that was beside him.  "Women be such ill matter, I'll sheer off from
+'em."
+
+"Well, lad, thou mayest do a deal worser," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "yet am I
+more afeared of _Wat_ than thee."
+
+"Is _Wat_ the more like to wed a _French_ hood?" saith _Ned_.
+
+"I reckon so much," saith she, "or a box of perfume, or some such
+rubbish.  Eh dear, this world!  _Ned_, 'tis a queer place: and the
+longer thou livest the queerer shalt thou find it."
+
+"'Tis a very pleasant place, _Aunt_, by your leave," said I.
+
+"Thou art not yet seventeen, _Edith_," saith she: "and thou hast not
+seen into all the dusty corners, nor been tangled in the spiders'
+webs.--Well, _Lettice_, I reckon _Aubrey_ gave consent?"
+
+"Oh ay," saith _Mother_, "in case _Milisent_ were agreeable."
+
+"And were _Milisent_ agreeable?" asks my Lady _Stafford_.
+
+"I think so much," made answer _Mother_, and smiled.
+
+"None save a blind bat should have asked that," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+"But thou hast worn blinkers, _Dulcie_, ever sith I knew thee.  Eh,
+lack-a-daisy! but that is fifty year gone, or not far thence."
+
+"Three lacking," quoth my Lady _Stafford_.
+
+"I'll tell you what, we be growing old women!" saith Aunt _Joyce.  "Ned_
+and _Edith_, ye ungracious loons, what do ye a-laughing?"
+
+"I cry you mercy, _Aunt_, I could not help it," said I, when I might
+speak: "you said it as though you had discovered the same but that
+instant minute."
+
+"Well, I had," saith she.  "And so shall you, afore you come to sixty
+years: or if not, woe betide you."
+
+"Dear heart, _Aunt_, there is a long road betwixt sixteen and sixty!"
+cried I, yet laughing.
+
+"There is, _Edith_," right grave, Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer.  "A long
+stretch of road: and may-be steep hills, child, and heavy moss, and
+swollen rivers to ford, and snowstorms to breast on the wild moors.  Ah,
+how little ye young things know!  I reckon most folk should count my
+life an easy one, beside other: but I would not live it again, an' I
+might choose.  Wouldst thou, _Dulcie_?"
+
+"Oh dear, no!" cries my Lady _Stafford_.
+
+"And thou, _Grissel_?"
+
+Mistress _Martin_ shook her head.
+
+"And thou, _Lettice_?"
+
+_Mother_ hesitated a little.  "Some part, I might," she saith.
+
+"Ay, some part: we could all pick out that," returns Aunt _Joyce_.
+"What sayest thou, _Bess_?"
+
+"What, to turn back, and begin all o'er again?" quoth Cousin _Bess_.
+"Nay, Mistress _Joyce_, I'm none such a dizard as that.  I reckon _Ned_
+shall tell you, when a sailor is coming round the corner in sight of
+home, 'tis not often he shall desire to sail forth back again."
+
+"Why, we reckon that as ill as may be," saith _Ned_, "not to be able to
+make your port, and forced to put to sea again."
+
+"And when the sea hath been stormy," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "and the port
+is your own home, and you can see the light gleaming through the
+windows?"
+
+"Why, it were well-nigh enough to make an old salt cry," saith _Ned_.
+
+"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Nay--I would not live it again.  Yet my life
+hath not been an hard one--only a little lonely and trying.  _Dulcie_,
+here, hath known far sorer sorrows than I.  Yet I shall be glad to get
+home, and lay by my travelling-gear."
+
+"But thou hast had sorrow, dear _Joyce_," saith my Lady _Stafford_
+gently.
+
+"Did any woman ever reach fifty without it?"  Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer.
+"Ay, I have had my sorrows, like other women--and one sorer than ever
+any knew.  May-be, _Dulcie_, if the roads were smoother and the rivers
+shallower to ford, we should not be so glad when we gat safe home."
+
+"`And so He leadeth them unto the haven where they would be,'" softly
+saith Mistress _Martin_.
+
+"Ay, it makes all the difference who leads us when we pass through the
+waters," answereth Aunt _Joyce_.  "I mind _Anstace_ once saying that.
+Most folks (said she) were content to go down, trusting to very shallow
+sticks--to the world, that brake under them like a reed; or to the
+strength of their own hearts, that had scantly the pith of a rush.  But
+let us get hold with a good grip of _Christ's_ hand, and then the water
+may carry us off our feet if it will.  It can never sweep us down the
+stream.  It must spend all his force on the Rock of our shelter, before
+it can reach us.  `In the great water-floods they shall not come _nigh_
+him.'"
+
+"May the good Lord keep us all!" saith _Mother_, looking tenderly on us.
+
+"Amen!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Children, the biting cold and the rough
+walking shall be little matter to them that have reached home."
+
+                                            SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE XIII.
+"_Walter_," saith _Father_ this even, "I have had a letter from my Lord
+of _Oxenford_."
+
+"You have so, Sir?" quoth he.  "But not an answer to yours?"
+
+"Ay, an answer to mine, having come down express with the Queen's
+Majesty's despatches unto my Lord _Dacre_ of the North."
+
+"But, _Aubrey_, that is quick work!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Why, I reckon
+it cannot be over nine days sith thine were writ."
+
+"Nor is it, _Joyce_," saith _Father_: "but look thou, I had rare
+opportunities, since mine went with certain letters of my Lord _Dilston_
+unto Sir _Francis Walsingham_."
+
+"Well, I never heard no such a thing!" crieth she.  "To send a letter to
+_London_ from _Cumberland_, and have back an answer in nine days!"
+
+"'Tis uncommon rapid, surely," saith _Father_.  "Well, _Walter_, my
+boy--for thine eyes ask the question, though thy tongue be still--my
+Lord of _Oxenford_ hath loosed thee from thine obligations, yet he
+speaks very kindlily of thee, as of a servant [Note 3] whom he is right
+sorry to lose."
+
+"You told him, _Father_,"--and _Wat_ brake off short.
+
+"I told him, my lad," saith _Father_, laying of his hand upon _Walter's_
+shoulder, "that I did desire to have thee to dwell at home a season: and
+moreover that I heard divers matters touching the Court ways, which
+little liked me."
+
+"Was that all, _Aubrey_?" asks Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Touching the cause thereof?  Ay."
+
+Then _Walter_ breaks forth, with that sudden, eager way he hath, which
+Aunt _Joyce_ saith is from _Mother_.
+
+"_Father_, I have not deserved such kindness from you!  But I do desire
+to say one thing--that I can see now it is better I were thence, though
+it was sore trouble to me at the first: and (God helping me) I will
+endeavour myself to deserve better in the future than I have done in the
+past."
+
+_Father_ held forth his hand, and _Wat_ put his in it.
+
+"God helping thee, my son," saith he gravely.  "I do in very deed trust
+the same.  Yet not without it, _Walter_!"
+
+Somewhat like an hour thereafter, when Aunt _Joyce_ and I were alone,
+she saith all suddenly, without a word of her thoughts aforetime--
+
+"Ay, the lad is his father's son, after all.  If he only could learn to
+spell _Nay_!"
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Note 1.  The reader is requested to remember that these sums must be
+multiplied by fifteen, to arrive at the equivalents in the present day.
+
+Note 2.  Paternoster Row was the Regent Street of Elizabeth's reign.
+
+Note 3.  The word servant was much more loosely used in the sixteenth
+century than at present.  Any lady or gentleman, however well born and
+educated, in receipt of a salary from an employer, was termed a servant.
+The Queen's Maids of Honour were in service, and their stipends were
+termed wages.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER TEN.
+
+IN DEEP PLACES.
+
+  "So I go on, not knowing--
+      I would not, if I might.
+  I would rather walk in the dark with God
+      Than go alone in the light:
+  I would rather walk with Him by faith
+      Than go alone by sight."
+
+  Philip Bliss.
+
+(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
+
+                                           SELWICK HALL, MARCH THE XVII.
+Helen's birthday.  She is this morrow of the age of seven-and-twenty
+years, being eldest of all us save _Anstace_.  _Alice Lewthwaite_ counts
+it mighty late to tarry unwed, but I do misdoubt of mine own mind if
+_Helen_ ever shall wed with any.
+
+From _Father_ she had gift of a new prayer-book, with a chain to hang at
+her girdle: and from _Mother_ a comely fan of ostrich feathers, with a
+mirror therein set; likewise with a silver chain to hang from the
+girdle.  Aunt _Joyce_ shut into her hand, in greeting of her, five gold
+_Spanish_ ducats,--a handsome gift, by my troth!  But 'tis ever Aunt
+_Joyce's_ way to make goodly gifts.  My Lady _Stafford_ did give a pair
+of blue sleeves, [Note 1] broidered in silver, whereon I have seen her
+working these weeks past.  Mistress _Martin_, a pair of lovesome white
+silk stockings [Note 2].  Sir _Robert_, a silver pouncet-box [a kind of
+vinaigrette] filled with scent.  _Anstace_, a broidered girdle of black
+silk; and _Hal_, a comfit-box with a little gilt spoon.  _Milisent_, two
+dozen of silver buttons; and I, a book of the _Psalms_, the which I wist
+_Helen_ desired to have (cost me sixteen pence).  _Ned_ diverted us all
+by making her present of a popinjay [parrot], the which he brought with
+him, and did set in care of _Faith Murthwaite_ till _Nell's_ birthday
+came.  And either _Faith_ or _Ned_ had well trained the same, for no
+sooner came the green cover off his cage than up goeth his foot to his
+head, with--
+
+"Good morrow, Mistress _Nell_, and much happiness to you!"
+
+All we were mighty taken [amused] with this creature, and I count _Ned_
+had no cause to doubt if _Helen_ were pleased or no.  Last came
+_Walter_, which bare in his hand a right pretty box of walnut-wood,
+lined of red taffeta, and all manner of cunning divisions therein.
+Saith he--
+
+"_Helen_, dear heart, I would fain have had a better gift to offer thee,
+but being in the conditions I am, I thought it not right for me to spend
+one penny even on a gift.  Howbeit, I have not spared labour nor
+thought, and I trust thou wilt accept mine offering, valueless though it
+be, for in very deed it cometh with no lesser love than the rest."
+
+"Why, _Wat_, dear heart!" crieth _Nell_, her cheeks all flushing, "dost
+think that which cost money, should be to me so much as half the value
+of thine handiwork, that had cost thee thought and toil!  Nay, verily!
+thou couldst have given me nought, hadst thou spent forty pound, that
+should have been more pleasant unto me.  Trust me, thy box shall be one
+of my best treasures so long as I do live, and I give thee hearty thanks
+therefor."
+
+_Walter_ looked right pleased, and saith he, "Well, in very deed I
+feared thou shouldst count it worth nought, for even the piece of
+taffeta to line the same I asked of _Mother_."
+
+"Nay, verily, not so!" saith she, and kissed him.
+
+To say _Wat_ were last, howbeit, I writ not well, for I forgat
+_Mynheer_, and Cousin _Bess_, the which I should not.
+
+Cousin _Bess_ marcheth up to _Nell_ with--"Well, my maid, thou hast this
+morrow many goodlier gifts than mine, yet not one more useful.  'Tis
+plain and solid, like me."  And forth she holdeth a parcel which, being
+oped, did disclose a right warm thick hood of black serge, lined with
+flannel and dowlas, mighty comfortable-looking.  _Mynheer_ cometh up
+with a courtesy and a scrape that should have beseemed a noble of the
+realm, and saith he--
+
+"Mistress _Helena Van Louvaine_--for that is your true name, as I am
+assured of certainty--I, a _Dutchman_, have the great honour and
+pleasure to offer unto you, a _Dutch_ vrouw, a most precious relic of
+your country, being a stool for your feet, made of willow-wood that
+groweth by the great dyke which keepeth off from _Holland_ the waters of
+the sea.  'Tis true, you be of the _Nether-Land_, and this cometh of the
+_Hollow-Land_--for such do the names mean.  Howbeit, do me the favour,
+_Domina mea_, to accept this token at the hands of your obeissant
+_paedagogus_, that should have had much pleasure in learning you the
+_Latin_ tongue, had it been the pleasure of your excellent elders.
+Alack that it were not so! for I am assured your scholarship should have
+been rare, and your attention thereto of the closest."
+
+_Nell_ kept her countenance (which was more than _Ned_ or _Milly_ could
+do), and thanked _Mynheer_ right well, ensuring him that she should
+essay to make herself worthy of the great honour of coming of _Dutch_
+parentage.
+
+Saith _Father_ drily, "There is time yet, _Mynheer_."
+
+"For what?" saith he.  "To learn Mistress _Helena_ the _Latin_?
+Excellent Sir, you rejoice me.  When shall we begin, Mistress
+_Helena_?--this morrow?"
+
+_Helen_ laughed now, and quoth she,--"I thank you much, _Mynheer_,
+though I am 'feared you reckon mine understanding higher than it
+demerit: yet I fear there shall scantly be opportunity this morrow.  I
+have divers dishes to cook that shall be cold for this even, and a deal
+of flannel-work to do."
+
+"Ah, the dishes and the flannel, they are mine abhorrence!" saith
+_Mynheer_.  "They stand alway in the road of the learning."
+
+"Nay, mine old _paedagogus_!" crieth _Ned_.  "I reckon the dishes are
+little your abhorrence at supper-time, nor the flannel of a cold night,
+when it taketh the form of blankets.  'Tis right well to uphold the
+learning, yet without _Nell's_ cates and flannel, your _Latin_ should
+come ill off."
+
+"The body is ever in the way of the soul!" saith _Mynheer_.  "Were we
+souls without bodies, what need had we of the puddings and the
+flannels?"
+
+"Or the _Latin_," sticketh in _Ned_, mischievously.
+
+_Mynheer_ wagged his head at _Ned_.
+
+"_Edward Van Louvaine_, thou wist better."
+
+"Few folks but know better than they do, _Mynheer_," saith _Ned_.  "Yet
+think you there shall be lexicons needed to talk with King _David_ or
+the Apostle _Paul_ hereafter?"
+
+"I trow not," saith _Father_.
+
+"Dear heart, Master _Stuyvesant_," cries Cousin _Bess_, "but sure the
+curse of _Babel_ was an ill thing all o'er!  You would seem to count it
+had a silver side to it."
+
+"It had a golden side, my mistress," made he answer.  "Had all men ever
+spoken but one tongue, the _paedagogus_ should scarce be needed, and
+half the delights of learning had disappeared from the earth."
+
+"Eh, lack-a-day!--but how different can folks look at matters!" saith
+Cousin _Bess_.  "Why, I have alway thought it should be a rare jolly
+thing when all strange tongues were done away (as I reckon they shall
+hereafter), and all folks spake but plain _English_."
+
+"Art so sure it should be _English_, _Bess_?" saith _Father_, smiling.
+"What an' it were _Italian_ or _Greek_?"
+
+"Good lack, that could never be!" crieth she.  "Why, do but think the
+trouble all men should have."
+
+"Somebody must have it," quoth he.  "I take it, what so were the tongue,
+all nations but one should have to learn it."
+
+"I'll not credit it, Sir _Aubrey_," crieth _Bess_, as she trotteth off
+to the kitchen.  "It is like to be _English_ that shall become the
+common tongue of the earth: it can't be no elsewise!"
+
+_Mynheer_ seemed wonderful taken with this fantasy of Cousin _Bess_.
+
+"How strange a thought that!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"_Bess_ is in good company," answereth _Father_.  "'Tis right the
+reasoning of Saint _Cyril_, when he maketh argument that the Temple of
+God, wherein the Man of Sin shall sit (as _Paul_ saith), cannot signify
+the _Christian_ Church.  But wherefore, good Sir? say you.  Oh, saith
+he, because `God forbid it should be this temple wherein we now are!'"
+
+"Well, it is a marvel to me," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "that some folks seem
+to have no brains!"
+
+"Is it so great a marvel?" saith _Father_.
+
+"But they have no wit!" saith she.  "Why, here yestereven was _Caitlin_,
+telling me the sun had put the fire out--she'd let it go out, the lazy
+tyke as she is!--Then said I, `But how so, _Caitlin_, when there hath
+been no sun?'  (You wist how hard it rained all day.) `Ha!' saith she--
+and gazed into the black grate, as though it should have helped her to
+an other excuse.  Which to all appearance it did, for in a minute quoth
+my wiseacre,--`Then an' it like you, Mistress, it was the light.'"
+
+"A lack of power to perceive the relation betwixt cause and effect,"
+saith _Father_, drily, "A lack of common sense!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"The uncommonest thing that is," quoth _Father_.
+
+"But wherefore should the sun put the fire out?" saith Sir _Robert_.
+
+"Nay, I'll let alone the whys and the wherefores," quoth she.  "It doth,
+and that is enough for me."
+
+_Father_ seemed something diverted in himself, but he said nought more.
+
+All the morrow were we busy in the kitchen, and the afternoon a-work:
+but in the even come all the young folks to keep _Nell's_ birthday--to
+wit, the _Lewthwaites_, the _Armstrongs_, the _Murthwaites_, the
+_Parks_, and so forth.  Of course _Robin_ had no eyes nor ears for aught
+but _Milisent_.  And for all Master _Ned_ may say of his being so rare
+heart-free, I did think he might have talked lesser with _Faith
+Murthwaite_ had it liked him so to do.  I said so unto him at after, but
+all I gat of my noble admiral was "Avast there!" the which I took to
+mean that he did desire me to hold my peace.  _Wat_ was rare courtly
+amongst all us, and had much praise of all the maidens.  Me-wondered if
+_Gillian Armstrong_ meant not to set her cap at him.  But I do misdoubt
+mine own self if any such rustical maids as be here shall be like to
+serve _Walter's_ turn.  I would fain hear more of this daughter of my
+Lord of _Sheffield_, that was his _Excellency_, but I am not well
+assured if I did well to ask at him or no.
+
+                                              SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE XX.
+'Tis agreed that Aunt _Joyce_, in the stead of making an end of her
+visit when the six months shall close, shall tarry with us until Sir
+_Robert_ and his gentlewomen shall travel southward, the which shall be
+in an other three weeks' time thereafter.  They look therefore to set
+forth in company as about the twentieth of _April_.  I am rare glad (and
+so methinks be we all) to keep Aunt _Joyce_ a trifle longer.  She is
+like a fresh breeze blowing through the house, and when she is away, as
+_Ned_ saith, we are becalmed.  Indeed, I would by my good will have her
+here alway.
+
+"Now, _Aunt_," said I, "you shall have time to write your thoughts in
+the Chronicle, the which shall end with this month, as 'twas agreed."
+
+"Time!" quoth she.  "And how many pages, my sweet scrivener?"
+
+"Trust me, but I'll leave you plenty," said I.  "Your part shall be a
+deal better worth the reading."
+
+"Go to, Mistress _Edith_!" saith she.  "`All the proof of a pudding is
+in the eating.'"
+
+"I am sure of that pudding," saith _Milisent_.
+
+"These rash young women!" maketh answer Aunt _Joyce_.  "When thou hast
+lived fifty or sixty years in this world, my good maid, thou wilt be a
+trifle less sure of most things.  None be so sure that a box is white of
+all sides as they that have seen but one.  When thou comest to the
+second, and findest it painted grey, thou wilt not be so ready to swear
+that the third may not be red."
+
+"But we can be sure of some things, at any years, _Aunt_," saith
+_Milly_.
+
+"Canst thou so?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Ah, child, thou hast not yet been
+down into many deep places.  So long as a goat pulls not at his tether,
+he may think the whole world lieth afore him when he hath but
+half-a-dozen yards.  Let him come to pull, and he will find how short it
+is.  There be places, _Milly_, where a man may get to, that he can be
+sure of nothing in all the universe save God.  And thou shalt not travel
+far, neither, to come to the end of that cord."
+
+"O Aunt _Joyce_, I do never love to hear such talk as that!" saith
+_Milly_.  "It causeth one feel so poor and mean."
+
+"Then it causeth thee feel what thou art," saith she.  "'Tis good for a
+man to find, at times, how little he can do."
+
+"It may be good, but 'tis mighty displeasant," quoth _Milisent_.
+
+"'Tis very well when it be no worse than displeasant," Aunt _Joyce_
+makes answer.  "I thought of places, _Milly_, which were not
+displeasant, but awful--where the human soul feels nigh to being shut up
+in the blackness of darkness for ever.  Thou wist little of such things
+yet.  But most souls which be permitted to soar high aloft be made
+likewise to descend deep down.  _David_ went deep enough--may-be deeper
+than any other save _Christ_.  Look you, he was appointed to write the
+_Psalter_.  Throughout all the ages coming, of his words was the Church
+to serve her when she should come into deep places.  There must be
+somewhat therein for every _Christian_ soul, and every _Jewish_ belike,
+ere _Christ_ came.  And to do that, I reckon _David_ had need to go very
+deep down.  He that shall help a man to climb forth of a well must know
+whereto the water reacheth, and on which side the steps be.  List
+him--`Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord!'  `I am come
+into deep places, where the floods overflow me.'"
+
+"But, _Aunt_," said I, yet was I something feared to say it, "was not
+that hard on _David_?  It scarce seems just that he should have to go
+through all those cruel troubles for our good."
+
+"Ah, _Edith_," saith she, "the Lord payeth His bills in gold of _Ophir_.
+I warrant you _David_ felt his deep places sore trying.  But ask thou
+at him, when ye meet, if he would have missed them.  He shall see
+clearer then when he shall wake up after His likeness, and shall be
+satisfied with it."
+
+"What sort of deep places mean you, _Aunt_?" saith _Helen_, looking on
+her somewhat earnestly.
+
+"Thou dost well to ask, _Nell_," quoth she, "for there be divers sorts
+of depths.  There be mind depths, the which are at times, as _Milly_
+saith, displeasant: at other times not displeasant.  But there be soul
+depths for the which displeasant is no word.  When the Lord seems to
+shut every door in thy face and to leave thee shut up in a well, where
+thou canst not breathe, and when thou seest no escape, and when thou
+criest and shoutest, He shutteth out thy prayer: when thine heaven above
+thee is as brass, and thine earth below thee iron: when it seems as if
+no God were, either to hear thee or to do for thee--that is a deep pit
+to get in, _Helen_, and not a pleasant one."
+
+"Aunt _Joyce_! can such a feeling be--at the least to one that feareth
+God?"
+
+"Ay, it can, _Nelly_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, solemnly, yet with much
+tenderness.  "And when thou comest into such a slough as that, may God
+have mercy upon thee!"
+
+And methought, looking in Aunt _Joyce's_ eyes, that at some past time of
+her life she had been in right such an one.
+
+"It sounds awful!" saith _Milisent_, under her breath.
+
+"It may be," saith Aunt _Joyce_, looking from the window, and after a
+fashion as though she spake to herself rather than to us, "that there be
+some souls whom the Lord suffers not to pass through such quagmires.
+May-be He only leads the strongest souls into the deepest places.  I say
+not that there be not deeps beyond any I know.  Yet I know of sloughs
+wherein I had been lost and smothered, had He not held mine hand tight,
+and watched that the dark waters washed not over mine head too far for
+life.  That word, `the fellowship of His passions,' hath a long tether.
+For He went down to Hell."
+
+"But, _Aunt_, would you say that meant the place of lost souls?" saith
+_Helen_.
+
+"I am wholesomely 'feared of laying down the law, _Nell_," saith Aunt
+_Joyce_, "touching such matters as I can but see through a glass darkly.
+What He means, He knoweth.  But the place of departed spirits can it
+scarce fail to be."
+
+"Aunt _Joyce_," saith _Helen_, laying down her work, "I trust it is not
+ill in me to say thus, but in very deed I do alway feel 'feared of what
+shall be after death.  If we might but know where we shall be, and with
+whom, and what we shall have to do--it all looks so dark!"
+
+"Had it been good for us, we should have known," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+"And two points we do know.  `With _Christ_,' and `far better.'  Is that
+not enough for those that are His friends?"
+
+"`If it were not so, I would have told you,'" saith my Lady _Stafford_.
+
+"But not _how_, Madam, an' it please you?" asks _Helen_.
+
+"If there were not room; if there were not happiness."
+
+"I take it," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "if there were not all that for which
+my nature doth crave.  But, mark you, my renewed nature."
+
+"Then surely we must know our friends again?" saith _Helen_.
+
+"He was a queer fellow that first questioned that," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+"If I be not to know _Anstace Morrell_, I am well assured I shall not
+know her sister _Joyce_!"
+
+"But thereby hangeth a dreadful question, _Joyce_!" answereth my Lady
+_Stafford_.  "If we must needs know the souls that be found, how about
+them that be missed?"
+
+Aunt _Joyce_ was silent for a moment.  Then saith she--
+
+"The goat doth but hurt himself, _Dulcie_, to pull too hard at the
+tether.  Neither thou nor I can turn over the pages of the Book of Life.
+It may be that we shall both find souls whom we thought to miss.
+May-be, in the very last moment of life, the Lord may save souls that
+have been greatly prayed for, though they that be left behind never wit
+it till they join the company above.  We poor blindlings must leave that
+in His hands unto whom all hearts be open, and who willeth not the death
+of any sinner.  `As His majesty is, so is His mercy.'  Of this one thing
+am I sure, that no soul shall be found in Hell which should have rather
+chosen Heaven.  They shall go `to their own place:' the place they are
+fit for, and the place they choose."
+
+"But how can we forget them?" she replieth.
+
+"If we are to forget them," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "the Lord will know how
+to compass it.  I have reached the end of my tether, _Dulcie_; and to
+pull thereat doth alway hurt me.  I will step back, by thy leave."
+
+As I listed the two voices, both something touched, methought it should
+be one soul in especial of whom both were thinking, and I guessed that
+were Mr _Leonard Norris_.
+
+"And yet," saith my Lady _Stafford_, "that thought hath its perilous
+side, _Joyce_.  'Tis so easy for a man to think he shall be saved at the
+last minute, howsoe'er he live."
+
+"Be there any thoughts that have not a perilous side?" saith Aunt
+_Joyce_.  "As for that, _Dulcie_, my rule is, to be as easy as ever I
+can in my charitable hopes for other folk; and as hard as ever I can on
+this old woman _Joyce_, that I do find such rare hard work to pull of
+the right road.  I cannot help other folks' lives: but I can see to it
+that I make mine own calling sure.  That is the safe side, I reckon."
+
+"The safe side, ay: but men mostly love to walk on the smooth side."
+
+"Why, so do I," quoth Aunt _Joyce_: "but I would be on the side that
+shall come forth smooth at the end."
+
+"Ah, if all would but think of that!" saith my Lady, and she fetched a
+sigh.
+
+"We should all soon be in Heaven," Aunt _Joyce_ made answer.  "But thou
+art right, _Dulcie_.  He that shall leave to look to his chart till the
+last hour of his journey is like to reach home very weary and worn, if
+he come at all.  He that will go straight on, and reckoneth to get home
+after some fashion, is not like to knock at the gate ere it be shut up.
+The easiest matter in all the world is to miss Heaven."
+
+                                             SELWICK HALL, MARCH YE XXV.
+This morrow, _Milisent_ was avised to ask at _Walter_, in a tone
+somewhat satirical, if he wist how his _Excellency_ did.
+
+"Nay, _Milly_, mind me not of my follies, prithee," quoth he, flushing.
+
+"Never cast a man's past ill-deeds in his face, _Milly_," softly saith
+_Mother_.  "His conscience (if it be awake) shall mind him of them oft
+enough."
+
+"I reckon she shall have forgotten by now how to spell his name," saith
+_Father_.  "There be many such at Court."
+
+"Yet they have hearts in the Court, trow?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"A few," quoth _Father_.  "But they mostly come forth thereof.  For one
+like my Lady of _Surrey_--(_Lettice_ will conceive me)--there is many a
+Lady of _Richmond_."
+
+"Oh, surely not, _Aubrey_!" crieth _Mother_, earnestly.
+
+"True, dear heart," answereth he.  "Let but a woman enter the Court--any
+Court--and verily it should seem to change her heart to stone."
+
+"Now, son of _Adam_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Well, daughter of _Eva_?"  _Father_ makes answer.
+
+"Casting the blame on the women," saith she.  "Right so did _Adam_, and
+all his sons have trod of his steps."
+
+"I thought she deserved it," saith _Father_.
+
+"She deserved it a deal less than he!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, in an heat.
+"He sinned with his eyes open, and she was deceived of the serpent."
+
+"Look you, she blamed the serpent, belike," saith Sir _Robert_,
+laughing.
+
+"I take it, she was an epitome in little of all future women, as _Adam_
+of all men to come," saith _Father_.  "But, _Joyce_, methinks _Paul_
+scarce beareth thee out."
+
+"I have heard folks to say _Paul_ was not a woman's friend," saith Sir
+_Robert_.
+
+"That's not true," quoth Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Why, how so, my mistress?"  Sir _Robert_ makes merry answer.  "He bade
+them keep silence in the churches, and be subject to the men, and not to
+teach: was that over courteous, think you?"
+
+"Call me a _Frenchman_, if I stand that!" crieth Aunt _Joyce_.  "Sir
+_Robert Stafford_, be so good as listen to me."
+
+"So I do, with both mine ears, I do ensure you," saith he, laughing.
+
+"Now shall we meet with our demerits!" saith _Father_.  "I pity thee not
+o'er much, _Robin_, for thou hast pulled it on thine own head."
+
+"My head will stand it," quoth Sir _Robert_.  "Now then, Mistress
+_Joyce_, prithee go to."
+
+Then quoth she, standing afore him--"I know well you can find me places
+diverse where _Paul_ did bid wives that they should obey their husbands;
+and therein hold I with _Paul_.  But I do defy you in this company to
+find me so much as one place wherein he biddeth women to obey men.  And
+as for teaching, in his Epistle unto _Titus_, he plainly commandeth that
+the aged women shall teach the young ones.  Moreover, I pray you, had
+not _Philip_ the evangelist four virgin daughters, which did prophesy--
+to wit, preach?  And did not _Priscilla_, no whit less than _Aquila_,
+instruct _Apollos_?"
+
+"Mistress _Joyce_, the Queen's Bench lost an eloquent advocate in you."
+
+"That's a man all over!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, with a little stamp of her
+foot.  "When he cannot answer a woman's reasoning, trust him to pay her
+a compliment, and reckon that shall serve her turn, poor fool, a deal
+better than the other."
+
+Sir _Robert_ laughed as though he were rarely diverted.
+
+"_Dulcie_ may do your bidding an' she list," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "but
+trust me, so shall not I."
+
+"Mistress _Joyce_, therein will I trust you as fully as may be," saith
+he, yet laughing.  "Yet, I pray you, satisfy my curious fantasy, and
+tell me wherein you count _Paul_ a friend to the women?"
+
+"By reason that he told them plainly they were happier unwed," saith
+Aunt _Joyce_: "and find me an other man that so reckoneth.  Mark you, he
+saith not better, nor holier, nor wiser; but happier.  That is it which
+most men will deny."
+
+"Doth it not in any wise depend on the woman?" saith Sir _Robert_, with
+a comical set of his lips.  "It depends on the man, a sight more," saith
+she.
+
+"But, my mistress, bethink you of the saw--`A man is what a woman makes
+him.'"
+
+"Oh, is he so?" crieth Aunt _Joyce_, in scorn.  "She's a deal more what
+he makes her.  `A good _Jack_, a good _Gill_!'  Saws cut two ways, Sir
+_Robert_."
+
+"Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other," saith _Father_.
+
+"_Lettice_, come thou and aid me," saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Here be two men
+set on one poor woman."
+
+"Nay, I am under obedience, _Joyce_," saith _Mother_, laughing.
+
+"Forsooth, so thou art!" quoth she.  "_Bess_, give me thine help."
+
+"I am beholden to you, Mistress _Joyce_," saith Cousin _Bess_, "but I
+love not to meddle in no frays of other folk.  I were alway learned that
+women were the meaner sort o' th' twain."
+
+"Go thy ways, thou renegade!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
+
+"Come, _Joyce_, shall I aid thee?" quoth _Father_.
+
+"Nay, thou hypocrite, I'll not have thee," saith she.  "Thou shouldst
+serve me as the wooden horse did the Trojans."  And she added some
+_Latin_ words, the which I wist not.  [Note 3.]
+
+  "`_Femme qui parle Latin
+  Ne vient jamais a bonne fin_.'"
+
+saith Sir _Robert_ under his voice.
+
+"That is because you like to have it all to yourselves," saith Aunt
+_Joyce_, turning upon him.  "There be _few_ men would not fainer have a
+woman foolish than learned.  Tell me wherefore?"
+
+"I dispute the major," quoth he, and shaked his head.
+
+"Then I'll tell you," pursueth she.  "Because--to give you _French_ for
+your _French_--`_Parmi les aveugles, les borgnes sont rois_.'  You love
+to keep atop of us; and it standeth to reason that the lower down we are
+the less toil shall you have in climbing."
+
+"`Endless genealogies, which breed doubts more than godly edifying,'"
+saith _Father_.  "Are we not landed in somewhat like them?"
+
+"Well, Sir _Robert_, I'll forgive you!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, and held
+forth her hand.  "But mark you, I am right and you are wrong, for all
+that."
+
+Sir _Robert_ lifted Aunt _Joyce's_ hand to his lips, with ever so much
+fun in his eyes, though his mouth were as grave as a whole bench of
+judges.
+
+"My mistress," said he, "I have been wed long enough to have learned
+never to gainsay a gentlewoman."
+
+"Nay, _Dulcie_ never learned you that!" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "I know her
+better.  Your daughters may have done, belike."
+
+Sir _Robert_ did but laugh, and so ended the matter.
+
+                                            SELWICK HALL, MARCH THE XXX.
+So here I am come to the last day of our Chronicle--to-morrow being
+_Sunday_, when methinks it unseemly to write therein, without it were
+some godly meditations that should come more meeter from an elder pen
+than mine.  To-morrow even I shall give the book into the hands of Aunt
+_Joyce_, that she may read the same, and write her own thoughts thereon:
+and thereafter shall _Father_ and _Mother_ and _Anstace_ read it.  There
+be yet fifteen leaves left of the book, and metrusteth Aunt _Joyce_
+shall fill them every one: for it standeth with reason that her thoughts
+should be better worth than of young maids like us.
+
+I wis not well if I have been wise on the last page or no, as _Father
+did_ seem diverted to hear me to say I would fain be.  I am something
+afeared that I come nearer _Milisent_ her reckoning, and have been wise
+on none.  But I dare say that _Helen_ hath fulfilled her hope, and been
+wise on all.  Leastwise, Aunt _Joyce_ her wisdom, as I cast no doubt,
+shall make up for our shortcomings.
+
+I cannot but feel a little sorry to lay down my pen, and as though I
+would fain keep adding another line, not to have done.  Wherefore is it,
+I marvel, that all last things (without they be somewhat displeasant) be
+so sorrowful?  Though it be a thing that you scarce care aught for, yet
+to think that you be doing it for the very last time of all, shall cause
+you feel right melancholical.
+
+Well! last times must come, I count.  So farewell, my good red book: and
+when the Queen's Majesty come to read thee (as _Milly_ would have it)
+may Her Majesty be greatly diverted therewith; and when _Father_ and
+_Mother_, may they pardon (as I reckon they shall) all faults and
+failings thereof, and in particular, should they find such, any
+displeasance done to themselves, more especially of that their loving
+and duteous daughter, that writes her name _Editha Louvaine_.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Note 1.  At this time separate articles from the dress, and fastened in
+when worn, according to taste.
+
+Note 2.  Silk stockings.  New and costly things, being about two guineas
+the pair.
+
+Note 3.  "_Timeo Danaos, ac dona ferentes_."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER ELEVEN.
+
+THE JOY OF HARVEST.
+
+  "Now that Thy mercies on my head
+  The oil of joy for mourning pour,
+  Not as I will my steps be led,
+  But as Thou wilt for evermore."
+
+  Anna L. Waring.
+
+(_In Joyce Morrell's handwriting_.)
+
+                                          SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE SECOND.
+Some ten years gone, when I was tarrying hither, I had set round my
+waist a leather thong, at the other end whereof was a very small damsel,
+by name _Edith_.  "Gee up, horse!" quoth she: "gee up, I say!" and
+accordingly in all obeisance I did gee up, and danced and pranced (like
+an old dolt as I am) at the pleasance of that my driver.  It seems me
+that Mistress _Edith_ hath said "Gee up!" yet once again, and given the
+old brown mare a cut of her whip.  I therefore have no choice but to
+prance: and if any into whose hands this book may fall hereafter shall
+reckon me a silly old woman, I hereby do them to wit that their account
+tallieth to one farthing with the adding of _Joyce Morrell_.
+
+I have read over the writings of these my cousins: and as I am commanded
+to write my thoughts on that matter, I must say that methinks but one of
+them hath done as she laid out to do.  That _Nell_ hath been wise on
+every page will I not deny; at the least, if not, they be right few.
+But I reckon _Edith_ hath been wise on more than the last (though not on
+all) and hath thus done better than she looked for: while as to _Milly_,
+she hath been wise on none of her first writing, and on all of her
+second.  Verily, when I came to read that record of _February_, I might
+scarce credit that _Milisent_ was she that writ.
+
+Ah, these young maids! how do they cause an elder woman to live o'er her
+life again!  To look thereat in one light, it seemeth me as a century
+had passed sithence I were as they: and yet turn to an other, and it is
+but yestereven since I was smoothing _Anstace'_ pillow, and making tansy
+puddings for my father, and walking along the garden, in a dream of
+bliss that was never to be, with one I will not name, but who shall
+never pass along those garden walks with me, never any more.
+
+And dost thou think it sorrow, young _Edith_, rosebud but just breaking
+into bloom, to clasp the hand of aught and say unto it, "Farewell, Last
+Time!"  I shall not gainsay thee.  All young things have such moods,
+half melancholical, half delightsome, and I know when I was as much
+given to them as ever thou art.  But there be sorrows to which there is
+no last time that you may know,--no clasping of loving hands, no tender
+farewell: only the awful waking to find that you have dreamed a dream,
+and the utter blank of life that cometh after.  Our worst sufferings are
+not the crushing pain for which all around comfort you and smoothe your
+pillow, and try one physic after an other that shall may-be give you
+ease.  They are those for which none essayeth to comfort you, and you
+could not bear it if they did.  No voice save His that knoweth our frame
+can speak comfort then, and oft-times not His even can speak hope.
+
+Ay, and they that account other folk cheery and hopeful,--as I see from
+these writings that these maids do of me,--what wit they of the inner
+conflict, and the dreary plains of despair we have by times to cross?
+It may be that she which crieth sore and telleth out all her griefs,
+hath far less a burden to carry than she which bolts the door of her
+heart o'er it, so that the world reckoneth her to have no griefs at all.
+In good sooth, I have found _Anstace_ right when she said the only safe
+confidant for most was _Jesu Christ_.
+
+Well!  It is ever best to let by-gones be by-gones.  Only there be
+seasons when they will not be gone, but insist on coming back and
+abiding with you for a while.  And one of those seasons is come to me
+this eve, after reading of this Chronicle.
+
+Ay, _Joyce Morrell_, thou art but a poor weak soul, and that none
+knoweth better than thyself.  Let the world reckon thee such, and
+welcome.  And in very deed I would fain have _Christ_ so to reckon me,
+for then should He take me in His arms with the little lambs, in the
+stead of leaving me to trot on alongside with the strong unweary sheep.
+
+Yes, they call a woman's heart weak that will go on loving, through evil
+report and good report,--through the deep snows of long absence, and the
+howling storms of no love to meet it, and the black gulfs of utter
+unworthiness.
+
+Be it so.  I confess them all.  But I go on hoping against all hope, and
+when even hope seems as though it died within me, I go on loving still.
+
+Was it for any love or lovesomeness of mine that God loved me?
+
+O my hope once so bright, my treasure that was mine once, my love that
+might have been!  Every morrow and every night I pray God to bring thee
+back from that far country whither thou art gone,--home to the Father's
+house.  If I may find thee on the road home, well, so much the sweeter
+for me.  But if not, let us only meet in the house of the Father, and I
+ask no more.
+
+I know thou hast loved many, with that alloyed metal thou dignifiest by
+the name.  But with the pure gold of a true heart that God calls love,
+none hath ever loved thee as I have,--may-be none hath ever loved thee
+but me.
+
+God knoweth,--thee and me.  God careth.  God will provide.  Enough, O
+fainting heart!  Get thee back into the clefts of the Rock that is
+higher than thou.  Rest, and be still.
+
+                                             SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE III.
+I could write no more last night.  It was better to cast one's self on
+the sand (as _Ned_ saith men do in the great Desert of _Araby_) and
+leave the tempest sweep o'er one's head.  I come back now to the life of
+every day--that quiet humdrum life (as _Milly_ hath it) which is so
+displeasant to young eager natures, and matcheth so well with them that
+be growing old and come to feel the need of rest.  And after all said,
+Mistress _Milisent_, a man should live a sorry life and a troublous, if
+it had in it no humdrum days.  Human nature could not bear perpetual
+sorrow, and as little (in this dispensation at the least) should it
+stand unceasing joy.
+
+I fell a-thinking this morrow, how little folks do wit of that which
+lieth a-head.  Now, if I were to prophesy (that am no prophet, neither a
+prophet's daughter) what should befall these young things my cousins
+twenty years hereafter, then would I say that it should find _Ned_
+captain of some goodly vessel, and husband of _Faith Murthwaite_ (and
+may he have no worser fate befall him!)--and _Wat_, a country gentleman
+(but I trust not wed to _Gillian Armstrong)_: and _Nell_, a comely
+maiden ministering lovingly unto her father and mother: and _Milisent_
+dwelling at _Mere Lea_ with _Robin Lewthwaite_: and _Edith_--nay, I will
+leave the fashioning of her way to the Lord, for I see not whither it
+lieth.  And very like (an' it be His will I live thus long) when the
+time cometh, I shall see may-be not so much as one that hath fulfilled
+the purpose I did chalk out for them.  Ay, but the Lord's chalking shall
+be a deal better than _Joyce Morrell's_.  I reckon my lines should be
+all awry.
+
+For how little hath happed that ever I looked for aforetime!  _Dulcie
+Fenton_, that wont to look as though it should be a sin in her to laugh,
+had she beheld aught to laugh at, hath blossomed out into an happy,
+comfortable matron, with two fair daughters, and an husband that (for a
+man) is rare good unto her: and _Lettice Eden_--come, _Anstace_ is to
+read this, so will I leave _Lettice_ to conceive for herself what should
+have followed.  Both she and _Aubrey_ shall read well enough betwixt the
+lines.  And _Joyce Morrell_, that thought once to be--what she is not--
+is an humdrum old maid, I trust a bit useful as to cooking and stitchery
+and the like, and on whom God hath put a mighty charge of His gold and
+goods to minister for Him,--but nought nearer than cousins to give her
+love, though that do they most rarely, and God bless their hearts
+therefor.  My best treasures be in the good Land--all save one, that the
+Good Shepherd is yet looking for over the wild hills: nor hath my life
+been an unhappy one, but for that one blank which is there day and
+night, and shall be till the Good Shepherd call me by my name to come
+and rejoice with Him over the finding of His sheep that is lost.  O
+Lord, make no long tarrying!  Yea, make no tarrying, O my God!
+
+                                               SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE V.
+_Ned_ hath spoke out at last, like the honest man he is, and done
+_Aubrey_ to wit of his desire to wed with _Faith Murthwaite_.  She is a
+good maid, and I cast no doubt shall make a good wife.  Scarce so comely
+as her sister _Temperance_, may-be, yet she liketh me the better: and
+not by no means so fair as _Gillian Armstrong_, which liketh me not at
+all.  I would with all mine heart that I could put a spoke in that
+lass's wheel the which she rolleth toward our _Walter_: yet this know I,
+that if you shall give an hint to a young man that he were best not to
+wed with a certain maid, mine head to a porridge-pot but he shall go and
+fall o' love with her, out of pure contrariety.  Men be such dolts!
+And, worser yet, they will not be ruled by the women, that have all the
+wit going.
+
+Master _Murthwaite_, though he say little, as his wont is, is
+nevertheless, as I can see, pleased enough (and Mistress _Murthwaite_ a
+deal more, and openly) that his lass should have caught our _Ned_.  And
+truly our _Ned_ is no ill catch, for he feareth God, and hath a deal of
+his father in him, than which I can write no better commendation.  _Wat_
+is more like _Lettice_.
+
+Ay me, but is it no strange matter that the last thing ever a man (or
+woman) doth seem able to understand, is that `whatsoever a man soweth,
+that shall he also reap.'  _That_: not an other thing.  Yet for one that
+honestly essayeth to sow that which he would reap, an hundred shall sow
+darnel and look confidently to reap fine wheat.  They sow that they have
+no desire to reap, and ope their dull eyes in amazement when that cometh
+up which they have sown.
+
+How do men pass their lives in endeavours to deceive God!  Because they
+be ready to take His gold for tinsel, they reckon He shall leave their
+tinsel pass for gold.
+
+Yea, and too oft we know not indeed what we sow.--Here be seeds; what, I
+wis not.  Drop them into the earth--they shall come up somewhat.--Then,
+when they come up briars and thistles, we stand and gape on them.--Dear
+heart, who had thought they should be so?  I looked for primroses and
+violets.--Did you so, friend?  But had you not been wiser to ask at the
+Husbandman, who wot that you did not?--Good lack! but I thought me wise
+enough.--Ay so: that do we all and alway.  Good Lord, who art the Only
+Wise, shake our conceits of our own wisdom!
+
+Lack-a-daisy, but how easy is it to fall of a rut in thy journeying!
+Here was I but to write my thoughts touching these maids' writings, and
+after reading the same, I am fallen of their rut, and am going on to
+keep the Chronicle as though I were one of them.  Of a truth, there is
+somewhat captivating therein: and _Edith_ saith she shall continue, for
+her own diversion, to keep a privy Chronicle.  So be it.  Methinks, as
+matter of understanding and natural turn thereto, she is fittest of the
+three.  _Nell_ saith she found it no easy matter, and should never think
+so to do: while _Milisent_, as I guess, shall for a while to come be
+something too much busied living her chronicle, to write it.  For me, I
+did once essay to do the same; but it went not, as I mind, beyond a week
+or so.  Either there were so much to do there was no time to write it;
+or so little that there was nought to write.  I well-nigh would now that
+I had kept it up.  For sure such changes in public matters as have
+fallen in my life shall the world not see many times o'er again.  When I
+was born, in Mdxxv [1525], was King _Harry_ the Eight young and
+well-liked of all men, and no living soul so much as dreamed of all the
+troubles thereafter to ensue.  Then came the tumult that fell of the
+matter of the King's divorce.  (All 'long of a man's obstinateness, for
+was not my sometime Lord Cardinal [Wolsey] wont to say that rather than
+miss the one half of his will, he would endanger the one half of his
+kingdom?  Right the man is that.  A woman should know how to bend
+herself to circumstances.)  Then came the troubles o'er Queen _Anne_,
+that had her head cut off (and by my troth, I misdoubted alway if she
+did deserve the same); and then of the divorce of the Lady _Anne_ of
+_Cleve_ (that no _Gospeller_ did ever think to deserve the same); and
+then of Queen _Katherine_, whose head was cut off belike--eh me, what
+troublous times were then!  Verily, looking back, they seem worser than
+at the time they did.  For when things be, there be mixed with all the
+troubles little matters that be easy and even delightsome: but to look
+back, one doth forget all them, and think only of the great affairs.
+And all the time, along with this, kept pace that great ado of religion
+which fell out in the purifying of the Church men call the Reformation.
+(Though, of a truth, the _Papists_ have of late took up a cry that afore
+the Reformation the Church of _England_ was not, and did only then
+spring into being.  As good say I was not _Joyce Morrell_ this morrow
+until I washed my face.)  Then, when King _Harry_ died--and it was none
+too soon for this poor realm--came the goodly days of our young _Josiah_
+King _Edward_, which were the true reforming of the Church; that which
+went afore were rather playing at reform.  Men's passions were too much
+mixed up with it.  But after the blue sky returned the tempest.  Ay me,
+those five years of Queen _Mary_, what they be to look back on!
+Howbeit, matters were worser in the shires and down south than up
+hither.  Old Bishop _Tunstall_ was best of all the _Papist_ Bishops, for
+though he flustered much (and as some thought, to save himself from
+suspicion of them in power), yet he did little more.  I well-nigh gat
+mine head into a noose, for it ne'er was my way to carry my flag furled,
+and Father _Slatter_, that was then priest at _Minster Lovel_, as I
+know, had my name set of his list of persons suspect.  Once come the
+catchpoll to mine house,--I wis not on what business, for, poor man! he
+tarried not to tell me when I come at him with the red-hot poker.  I
+never wist a man yet, would stand a red-hot poker with a woman behind it
+that meant it for him.  Master Catchpoll were wise enough to see that
+the penny is well spent that saveth a groat, and he gave me leave to see
+little more of him than his flying skirts and the nails of his boots--
+and his hat, that he left behind of his hurry, the which I sent down to
+my mistress his wife with mine hearty commendations, and hope he had
+catched no cold.  I reckon he preferred the risk of that to the surety
+of catching a red-hot poker.  But that giving me warning of what might
+follow--as a taste of a dish whereof more should be anon laid on my
+trencher--up-stairs went I, and made up my little bundle, and the next
+night that ever was, away came I of an horse behind old _Dickon_, that
+had been sewer ever since _Father_ and _Mother_ were wed, then
+five-and-thirty years gone, and Father _Slatter_ might whistle for me,
+as I reckon he did when he heard it.  It were an hard journey and a
+cold, for it were winter, but the snow was our true friend in covering
+all tracks, and at long last came I safe hither, in the middle of the
+night, and astonied _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_ more than a little by casting
+of snowballs at their chamber window.  At the last come the casement
+undone, and _Aubrey's_ voice saith--
+
+"Is there any in trouble?"
+
+"Here is a poor maid, by name _Joyce Morrell_," said I, "that will be in
+trouble ere long if thou leave her out in this snowstorm."
+
+Good lack, but was there no ado when my voice were known!  The hall fire
+embers were stirren up, and fresh logs cast thereon, and in ten minutes
+was I sat afore it of a great chair, with all the blankets in
+_Cumberland_ around and over me, and a steaming hot posset-bowl of mine
+hand.
+
+It was a mile or so too far, I reckon, for Father _Slatter_ to trudge
+after me, and if he had come, I'd have serven him of the poker, or twain
+if need be.  I guess he should have loved rather to flounder back
+through the snow.
+
+So, by the good hand of my God upon me, came I safe through the reign of
+Queen _Mary_; and when Queen _Elizabeth_ came in (whom God long
+preserve, unto the comfort of His Church and the welfare of _England_!)
+had I not much ado to win back my lands and goods.  Truth to tell, I gat
+not all back, but what I lost was a cheap bargain where life lay in the
+other scale.  And enough is as good as a feast, any day.
+
+So here lie I now at anchor, becalmed on the high seas.  (If that emblem
+hang not together, _Ned_ must amend it when he cometh unto it.)  The day
+is neither bright nor dark, but it is a day known to the Lord, and I
+have faith to believe that at eventide it shall be light.  I can trust
+and wait.
+
+(_In Edith's handwriting_.)
+
+             MINSTER LOVEL MANOR HOUSE, AUGUST THE XXVIII, MDXCI [1591].
+When I come, this morrow, to search for my Diurnal Book, the which for
+aught I knew I had brought with me from home, what should I find but our
+old Chronicle, which I must have catched up in mistake for the same?
+And looking therein, I was enticed to read divers pages, and then I fell
+a-thinking that as it had so happed, it might be well, seeing a space
+was yet left, that I should set down for the childre, whose it shall
+some day be, what had come to pass since.  They were the pages Aunt
+_Joyce_ writ that I read: and seeing that of them therein named, two
+have reached Home already, and the rest of us be eleven years further on
+the journey, it shall doubtless make the story more completer to add
+these lines.
+
+_Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_, be all yet alive; the Lord be
+heartily thanked therefor!  But _Father's_ hair is now of the hue of the
+snow, though _Mother_ hath scantly any silver amongst the gold; and Aunt
+_Joyce_ well-nigh matcheth _Father_.  _Hal_ and _Anstace_ be as they
+were, with more childre round them.  _Robin_ and _Milisent_ dwell at
+_Mere Lea_, with a goodly parcel belike; and _Helen_ (that Aunt _Joyce_
+counted should be an old maid) is wife unto _Dudley Murthwaite_, and
+dwelleth by _Skiddaw Force_.  _Wat_ is at _Kendal_, grown a good man and
+wise, more like to _Father_ than ever we dared hope: but his wife is not
+_Gillian Armstrong_, nor any of the maids of this part, but _Frances
+Radcliffe_, niece to my Lord _Dilston_ that was, and cousin unto
+Mistress _Jane_ and Mistress _Cicely_.  They have four boys and three
+maids: but _Nell_ hath only one daughter, that is named _Lettice_ for
+_Mother_.
+
+And _Ned_ is not.  We prayed the Lord to bring him safe from that last
+voyage to _Virginia_ that ever Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ took; and He set
+him safe enough, but in better keeping than ours.  For from that voyage
+came safe to _Falmouth_ all the ships save one, and that was the
+Admiral's own.  They had crossed the _Atlantic_ through an awful storm,
+and the last seen of the Admiral was on the ix of _September_, Mdlxxxiii
+[1583], by them in the _Hind_: and when they saw him he was sat of the
+stern of his vessel, with his Bible open of his knees: and he was
+plainly heard to say,--"Courage, my men!  Heaven is as near by water as
+by land."  Then the mist closed again o'er the fleet, and they saw him
+no more.  On the xxii of _September_ the fleet reached _Falmouth_: but
+when, and where, and how, Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_ and our _Ned_ went
+down, He knoweth unto whom the night is as clear as the day, and we
+shall know when the sea giveth up her dead.
+
+His young widow, our dear sister _Faith_, dwelleth with us at _Selwick_
+Hall: and so doth their one child, little _Aubrey_, the darling of us
+all.  I cannot choose but think never were two such sweetings as
+_Aubrey_ and his cousin _Lettice Murthwaite_.
+
+I am _Edith Louvaine_ yet.  I know now that I was counted fairest of the
+sisters, and they looked for me to wed with confidence.  I am not so
+fair now, and I shall never wed.  Had things turned out other than they
+have, I will not say I might not have done it.  There is no blame to
+any--not even to myself.  It was of God's ordering, and least of all
+could I think to blame that.  It is only--and I see no shame to tell
+it--that the man who was my one love never loved me, and is happy in the
+love of a better than I.  Be it so: I am content.  I had no
+love-story,--only a memory that is known to none but me, though it will
+never give mine heart leave to open his gates to any love again.  Enough
+of that.  It is all the better for our dear _Father_ and _Mother_ that
+they have one daughter left to them.
+
+At the time we writ this Chronicle, when I were scarce seventeen years
+of age, I mind I had a fantasy running through my brain that I was born
+for greatness.  Methinks it came in part of a certain eager restless
+spirit that did long to be a-doing, and such little matters as do
+commonly fall to women's lot seemed mean and worthless in mine eyes.
+But in part (if I must needs confess my folly) I do believe it sprang of
+a tale I had heard of _Mother_, touching Queen _Katherine_, the last
+wife to King _Harry_ that was, of whom some _Egyptian_ [gypsy] had
+prophesied, in her cradle, that she was born for a crown: and ever after
+she heard the same, the child (as she then were) was used to scorn
+common works, and when bidden to her task, was wont to say,--"My hands
+were made to touch crowns and sceptres, not spindles and neelds,"
+[needles].  Well, this tale (that _Mother_ told us for our diversion
+when we were little maids--for she, being _Kendal_ born, did hear much
+touching the Lady _Maud Parr_ and her childre, that dwelt in _Kendal_
+Castle) this tale, I say, catched great hold of my fantasy.  Mistress
+_Kate Parr_ came to be a queen, according to her previsions of
+greatness: and wherefore should not _Editha Louvaine_?  Truly, there was
+but little reason in the fantasy, seeing no _Egyptian_ had ever
+prophesied of me (should that be of any account, which _Father_ will
+ne'er allow), nor could the Queen's Majesty make me a queen by wedding
+of me: but methinks pride and fantasy stick not much at logic.  So I
+clung in my silly heart to the thought that I was born to be great, and
+was capable to do great things, would they but come in my way.
+
+And now I have reached the age of seven and twenty, and they have not
+come in my way, nor seem like to do.  The only conquest I am like to
+achieve is that over mine own spirit, which _Scripture_ reckoneth better
+than taking of a city: and the sole entrance into majesty and glory that
+ever I can look for, is to be presented faultless before the presence of
+God with exceeding joy.  Ah, _Editha Louvaine_! hast thou any cause for
+being downcast at the exchange?
+
+In good sooth, this notion of mine (that I can smile at now) showeth one
+thing, to wit, the deal of note that childre be apt to take of little
+matters that should seem nought to their elders.  I can ne'er conceive
+the light and careless fashion wherein some women go about to breed up a
+child.  To me the training of a human soul for the life immortal seems
+the most terrible piece of responsibility in the whole world.
+
+And now there is one story left that I must finish, and it is of the
+other that hath got Home.
+
+It was five years gone, and a short season after _Helen's_ marriage.
+_Mother_ was something diseased, as I think, touching me, for she said I
+was pale, and had lost mine appetite (and my sleep belike, though she
+wist it not).
+
+'Twas thought that the winters at home were somewhat too severe for mine
+health, and 'twas settled that for the winter then coming, I should
+tarry with Aunt _Joyce_.  It was easy to compass the matter, for at that
+time was _Wat_ of a journey to _London_ on his occasions, and he brought
+me, early in _October_, as far as _Minster Lovel_.  As for getting back,
+that was left to see to when time should be convenient.  _Father_ gave
+me his blessing, and three nobles spending money, and bade me bring back
+home a pair of rosier cheeks, saying he should not grudge to pay the
+bill: and _Mother_ shed some tears o'er me, and packed up for me much
+good gear of her own spinning and knitting, and all bade me farewell
+right lovingly.  I o'erheard Cousin _Bess_ say to _Mother_ that the sun
+should scant seem to shine till I came back: the which dear _Mother_ did
+heartily echo, saying she wist not at all what had come o'er me, but it
+was her good hope that a southward winter should make me as an other
+maid.
+
+Well!  I could have told her what she wist not, for I was then but new
+come out of the discovering that what women commonly reckon the flower
+of a woman's life was not for me, and that I must be content to crown
+mine head with the common herb of the field.  But I held my peace, and
+none wist it but Aunt _Joyce_: for in her presence had I not been a day
+when I found that her eyes had read me through.  As we sat by the fire
+at even, our two selves, quoth she all suddenly, without an other word
+afore it--
+
+"There be alway some dark valleys in a woman's life, _Edith_."
+
+"I reckon so, _Aunt_," said I, essaying to speak lightly.
+
+"Ay, and each one is apt to think she hath no company.  But there be
+always footsteps on the road afore us, child.  Nearest of all be His
+footsteps that knelt that dark night in _Gethsemane_, with no human
+comforting in His agony.  There hath never been any sorrow like to His
+sorrow, though each one of us is given to suppose there is none like her
+own.  Poor little _Edith_! didst reckon thy face should be any riddle to
+me--me, that have been on the road afore thee these forty years?"
+
+I could not help it.  That gentle touch unlocked the sealed fountain,
+and I knelt down by Aunt _Joyce_, and threw mine arms around her, and
+poured out mine heart like water, with mine head upon her knees.  She
+held me to her with one arm, but not a word said she till my tears were
+stayed, and I could lift mine head again.
+
+"That will do thee good, child," saith she.  "'Tis what thy body and
+mind alike were needing.  (And truly, mine heart, as methought, hath
+never felt quite so sore and bound from that day.)  I know all about it,
+_Edith_.  I saw it these two years gone, when I was with you at
+_Selwick_.  And I began to fear, even then, that there was a dark valley
+on the road afore thee, though not so dark as mine.  Ah, dear heart, it
+is sore matter to find thy shrine deserted of the idol: yet not half so
+sore as to see the idol lie broken at thy feet, and to know
+thenceforward that it was nought but a lump of common clay.  No god--
+only a lump of clay, that thy foolish heart had thought to be one!
+Well! all that lieth behind, and the sooner thou canst turn away and go
+on thy journey, the better.  But for what lieth afore, _Edith_, look
+onward and look upward.  Heaven will be the brighter because earth was
+darker than thou hadst looked for.  _Christ_ will be the dearer Friend,
+because the dearest human friend hath failed thine hope.  It is not the
+traveller that hath been borne through flowers and sunshine on the soft
+cushions of a litter, that is the gladdest to see the lights of home."
+
+"It is nobody's fault," I could not help whispering.
+
+"I know, dear heart!" she saith.  "Thine idol is not broken.  Thank God
+for it.  Thou mayest think of him yet as a true man, able to hold up his
+head in the sunlight, with no cause to be 'shamed of the love which
+stole into thine heart ere thou hadst wist it.  Alas for them to whom
+the fairest thought which even hope can compass, is the thought of the
+prodigal in the far country, weary at long last of the husks which the
+swine do eat, and turning with yearning in his eyes toward the hills
+which lie betwixt him and the Father.  O _Edith_, thank God that He hath
+spared thee such a sorrow as that!"
+
+It was about six weeks after that even, when one wet morrow, as I was
+aiding Aunt _Joyce_ to turn the apples in her store-chamber, and gather
+into a basket such as lacked use, that _Barbara_, the cook-maid, come in
+with her hands o'er flour, to say--
+
+"Mistress, here at the base door is a poor blind man, begging for broken
+victuals.  Would you have me give him that beef-bone you set aside for
+broth?"
+
+"A blind man?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.  "Then shall he not go empty.  I am
+coming down, _Bab_, and will look to him myself.  Bring him out of the
+rain to the kitchen fire, and if he have a dog that leadeth him, find
+the poor animal some scraps.--Now, _Edith_, bring thy basket, and I will
+take mine."
+
+"He hath no dog, Mistress," saith _Bab_; "'twas a lad that brought him."
+
+"Then the lad may have an apple," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "which the dog
+should scantly shake his tail for.  Go and bring them in, _Bab_; I shall
+be after thee presently."
+
+So down came we into the kitchen, where was sat the blind man and the
+lad.  We set down our baskets, and I gave the lad an apple at a sign
+from Aunt _Joyce_, which went toward the blind man and 'gan ask him if
+he were of those parts.
+
+He was a comely man of (I would judge) betwixt sixty and seventy years,
+and had a long white beard.  He essayed to rise when Aunt _Joyce_ spake.
+
+"Nay, sit still, friend," saith she: "I dare reckon thou art aweary."
+
+"Ay," saith he in a sad tone: "weary of life and all things that be in
+it."
+
+"Ay so?" quoth she.  "And how, then, of thine hope for the life beyond,
+where they never rest, yet are never weary?"
+
+"Mistress," saith he, "the sinner that hath been pardoned a debt of ten
+thousand talents may have peace, but can scarce dare rise to hope."
+
+"I am alway fain when a man reckoneth his debt heavy," saith Aunt
+_Joyce_.  "We be mostly so earnest to persuade ourselves that we owe no
+farthing beyond an hundred pence."
+
+"I could never persuade myself of that," saith he, shaking his white
+head.  "I have plunged too deep in the mire to have any chance to doubt
+the conditions of my clothing."
+
+It struck me that his manner of speech was something beyond a common
+beggar, and I could not but marvel if he had seen better days.
+
+"And what askest, friend?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, winch turned away from
+him and busied herself with casting small twigs on the fire.
+
+"A few waste victuals, if it like you, Mistress.  They will be better
+than I deserve."
+
+"And if it like me not?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, suddenly, turning back to
+him, and methought there was a little trembling in her voice.
+
+"Then," saith he, "I will trouble you no further."
+
+"Then," saith she, to mine amaze, "I tell thee plainly I will not give
+them to such a sinner as thou hast been, by thine own confession."
+
+"Be it so," he saith quietly, bowing his white head.  "I cry you mercy
+for having troubled you, and I wish you a good morrow."
+
+"That shalt thou never," came from Aunt _Joyce_, in a voice which was
+not hers.  "Didst thou count _I_ was blind?  _Leonard_, _Leonard_!"
+
+And she clasped his hands in hers, and drew him back to the fireside.
+
+"`Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and bring hither the
+fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat and be merry.  For this my love
+was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.'  My God, I
+thank Thee!"
+
+And then, out of the white hair and the blind blue eyes, slowly came
+back to me the face of that handsome gentleman which had so near
+beguiled our _Milisent_ to her undoing, and had wrought such ill in
+_Derwentdale_.
+
+"_Joyce_!" he saith, in a greatly agitated voice.  "I would never have
+come hither, had I reckoned thou shouldst wit me."
+
+"Thou wert out of thy reckoning, then," she answereth.  "I tell thee, as
+I told _Dulcie_ years agone, that were I low laid in my grave, I should
+hear thy step upon the mould above me."
+
+"I came," he saith, "but to hear thy voice once afore I die.  Look upon
+thy face can I never more.  But I thought to hear the voice of the only
+woman which ever loved me in very truth, and unto whom my wrong-doing is
+the heaviest sin in all my black calendar."
+
+"Pardoned sin should not be heavy," saith she.
+
+"Nay," quoth Mr _Norris_, "but it is the heaviest of all."
+
+"Come in, _Leonard_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, tenderly.
+
+"Nay, my merciful _Joyce_, let me not trouble thee," saith he, "for if
+thou canst not see it in my face, I know in mine heart that I am struck
+for death."
+
+"I have seen it," she made answer.  "And thou shalt spend thy last days
+no whither but in the Manor House at _Minster Lovel_, nor with any other
+nurse nor sister than _Joyce Morrell_.  _Leonard_, for forty years I
+have prayed for this day.  Dash not the cup from my lips ere I have well
+tasted its sweetness."
+
+I caught a low murmur from Mr _Norris'_ lips, "Passing the love of
+women!"  Then he held out his hand, and Aunt _Joyce_ drew it upon her
+arm and led him into her privy parlour.
+
+I left them alone till she called me.  To that interview there should be
+no third save God.
+
+Nor was it much that I heard at after.  Some dread accident had happed
+him, at after which his sight had departed, and his hair had gone white
+in a few weeks.  He had counted himself so changed that none should know
+him.  I doubt if he should not have been hid safe enough from any eyes
+save hers.
+
+He lived about three months thereafter.  Never in all my life saw I man
+that spake of his past life with more loathing and contrition.  Even in
+death, raptures of thanksgiving had he none.  He could not, as it
+seemed, rise above an humble trust that God would be as good as His
+word, and that for _Christ's_ sake he that had confessed his sins and
+forsaken them should find mercy.
+
+He alway said that it was one word of Aunt _Joyce_ that had given him
+even so much hope.  She had said to him, that day in the copse, after
+she had sent away _Milisent_ and me,--"I shall never give thee up,
+_Leonard_.  I shall never cease praying for thee, till I know thou art
+beyond all prayer."
+
+"It was those prayers, _Joyce_, that brought me back," he said.  "After
+mine accident, I had been borne into a cot by the way-side, where as I
+lay abed in the back chamber, I could not but hear the goodman every day
+read the _Scriptures_ to his household.  Those _Scriptures_ seethed in
+mine heart, and thy prayers were alway with me.  It was as though they
+fitted one into the other.  I thought thou hadst prayed me into that
+cot, for I might have been carried into some godless house where no such
+thing should have chanced me.  But ever and anon, mixed with God's Word,
+I heard thy words, and thy voice seemed as if it called to me,--`Come
+back! come back!'  I thought, if there were so much love and mercy in
+thee, there must be some left in God."
+
+The night that Mr _Norris_ was buried in the churchyard of _Minster
+Lovel_, as we sat again our two selves by the fireside, Aunt _Joyce_
+saith to me, or may-be to herself--
+
+"I should think I may go now."
+
+"Whither, _Aunt_?" said I.
+
+"Home, _Edith_," she made answer.  "Home--to _Leonard_ and _Anstace_,
+and to _Christ_.  The work that was set me is done.  `_Nunc dimittis,
+Domine_!'"
+
+"Dear Aunt _Joyce_," said I, "I want you for ever so long yet."
+
+"If thou verily do, _Edith_," saith she, "I shall have to tarry.  And
+surely, she that hath borne forty years' travel in the darkness, can
+stand a few days' more journeying in the light.  I know that when the
+right time cometh, my Father will not forget me.  The children may by
+times feel eager to reach home, but the Father's heart longeth the most
+to have them all safe under His shelter."
+
+And very gravely she added--"`They that were ready went in with Him to
+the wedding: and the gate was shut up.'"
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Joyce Morrell's Harvest, by Emily Sarah Holt
+
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