_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?"