THE WISH HOUSE “LATE CAME THE GOD” Late came the God, having sent his forerunners who were not regarded-- Late, but in wrath; Saying: “The wrong shall be paid, the contempt be rewarded On all that she hath.” He poisoned the blade and struck home, the full bosom receiving The wound and the venom in one, past cure or relieving. He made treaty with Time to stand still that the grief might be fresh-- Daily renewed and nightly pursued through her soul to her flesh-- Mornings of memory, noontides of agony, midnights unslaked for her, Till the stones of the streets of her Hells and her Paradise ached for her. So she lived while her body corrupted upon her. And she called on the Night for a sign, and a Sign was allowed, And she builded an Altar and served by the light of her Vision-- Alone, without hope of regard or reward, but uncowed, Resolute, selfless, divine. These things she did in Love’s honour ... What is a God beside Woman? Dust and derision! THE WISH HOUSE The new Church Visitor had just left after a twenty-minutes’ call. During that time, Mrs. Ashcroft had used such English as an elderly, experienced, and pensioned cook should, who had seen life in London. She was the readier, therefore, to slip back into easy, ancient Sussex (“t”s softening to “d”s as one warmed) when the ’bus brought Mrs. Fettley from thirty miles away for a visit, that pleasant March Saturday. The two had been friends since childhood; but, of late, destiny had separated their meetings by long intervals. Much was to be said, and many ends, loose since last time, to be ravelled up on both sides, before Mrs. Fettley, with her bag of quilt-patches, took the couch beneath the window commanding the garden, and the football-ground in the valley below. “Most folk got out at Bush Tye for the match there,” she explained, “so there weren’t no one for me to cushion agin, the last five mile. An’ she _do_ just-about bounce ye.” “You’ve took no hurt,” said her hostess. “You don’t brittle by agein’, Liz.” Mrs. Fettley chuckled and made to match a couple of patches to her liking. “No, or I’d ha’ broke twenty year back. You can’t ever mind when I was so’s to be called round, can ye?” Mrs. Ashcroft shook her head slowly--she never hurried--and went on stitching a sack-cloth lining into a list-bound rush tool-basket. Mrs. Fettley laid out more patches in the Spring light through the geraniums on the window-sill, and they were silent awhile. “What like’s this new Visitor o’ yourn?” Mrs. Fettley inquired with a nod towards the door. Being very short-sighted, she had, on her entrance, almost bumped into the lady.