"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.'"