"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.