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.