"I do not know, _Edith_," she saith, and crushed in her lips. "That hangs on what sort of woman she be. There shall be a wound, in either case: but with some it gets cicatrised over and sound again with time, and with other some it tarries an open issue for ever. It hangs all on the manner of woman." "What should it be with you, Aunt _Joyce_?" said I, though I were something feared of mine own venturesomeness. "What it _is_, _Edith_," she made answer, crushing in her lips again, "is the open issue, bandaged o'er so that none knows it is there save He to whose eyes all things be open. Child, there be some things in life wherein the only safe confidant thou canst have is _Jesu Christ_. I say so much, by reason that thine elders think it best--and I likewise--that ye maids should be told somewhat more than ye have heard aforetime. Ay, I give full assent thereto. I only held out for one thing--that I, not your mother, should be she that were to tell it." We were silent a moment, and then _Milisent_ stirred in her sleep. Aunt _Joyce_ went to her. "Awake, my dear heart?" saith she. _Milly_ sat up, and pushed aside her hair from her face, the which was flushed and sullen. "Aunt _Joyce_, may the Lord forgive you for this day's work!" saith she. I was fair astonied that she should dare thus to speak. But Aunt _Joyce_ was in no wise angered. "Amen!" she saith, as softly as might be spoken. "Had I no worser sins to answer for, methinks I should stand the judgment." "No worser!" _Milisent_ blazed forth. "What, you think it a light matter to part two hearts that love well and truly?" "Nay, truly, I think it right solemn matter," saith Aunt _Joyce_, still softly. "And if aught graver can be, _Milly_, it is to part two whereof the one loveth well, and the other--may God forgive us all!" "What mean you now?" saith _Milisent_ of the same fashion. "Is it my love you doubt, or his?" "_Milisent Louvaine_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "if thou be alive twenty years hence, thou shalt thank God from thy very heart-root that thou wert stayed on that road to-day." "Oh ay, that is what folk always say!" murmurs she, and laid her down again. "`Thou wilt thank me twenty years hence,' quoth they, every stinging stroke of the birch. And they look for us beaten hounds to crede it, forsooth!" "Ay--when the twenty years be over." "I am little like to thank you at twenty years' end," saith _Milly_ sullenly, "for I count I shall die of heart-break afore twenty weeks." "No, _Milly_, I think not." "And much you care!" Then I saw Aunt _Joyce's_ face alter--terribly. "_Milisent_," she said, "if I had not cared, I should scantly have gone of set purpose through that which wrung every fibre of my heart, ay, to the heart's core." "It wrung me more than you," _Milisent_ makes answer, of the same bitter, angered tone as aforetime.