"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.