Ay, and they that account other folk cheery and hopeful,--as I see from these writings that these maids do of me,--what wit they of the inner conflict, and the dreary plains of despair we have by times to cross? It may be that she which crieth sore and telleth out all her griefs, hath far less a burden to carry than she which bolts the door of her heart o'er it, so that the world reckoneth her to have no griefs at all. In good sooth, I have found _Anstace_ right when she said the only safe confidant for most was _Jesu Christ_. Well! It is ever best to let by-gones be by-gones. Only there be seasons when they will not be gone, but insist on coming back and abiding with you for a while. And one of those seasons is come to me this eve, after reading of this Chronicle. Ay, _Joyce Morrell_, thou art but a poor weak soul, and that none knoweth better than thyself. Let the world reckon thee such, and welcome. And in very deed I would fain have _Christ_ so to reckon me, for then should He take me in His arms with the little lambs, in the stead of leaving me to trot on alongside with the strong unweary sheep. Yes, they call a woman's heart weak that will go on loving, through evil report and good report,--through the deep snows of long absence, and the howling storms of no love to meet it, and the black gulfs of utter unworthiness. Be it so. I confess them all. But I go on hoping against all hope, and when even hope seems as though it died within me, I go on loving still. Was it for any love or lovesomeness of mine that God loved me? O my hope once so bright, my treasure that was mine once, my love that might have been! Every morrow and every night I pray God to bring thee back from that far country whither thou art gone,--home to the Father's house. If I may find thee on the road home, well, so much the sweeter for me. But if not, let us only meet in the house of the Father, and I ask no more. I know thou hast loved many, with that alloyed metal thou dignifiest by the name. But with the pure gold of a true heart that God calls love, none hath ever loved thee as I have,--may-be none hath ever loved thee but me. God knoweth,--thee and me. God careth. God will provide. Enough, O fainting heart! Get thee back into the clefts of the Rock that is higher than thou. Rest, and be still.