"I would rather thou hadst lost me than the Lord, _Lettice_: and if thou hadst not, methinks He had found me wanting," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Now, dear hearts, list me. I have much trust in you, _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_, or I had not dared to do as I have done this night. I have brought into your house a woman that is a sinner. Will you turn her forth of the doors to die in the snow without, or will you let her 'bide till she hath had time to behold Him that sitteth as guest at your banquet, and, I would hope, to wash His feet with tears, and wipe them with the hairs of her head?" "O _Joyce_, let her 'bide!" crieth _Mother_, and the tears ran down her cheeks. "Amen!" saith _Father_, gently. "But who is she?" saith _Mother_, as if something fearfully. "She is,"--Aunt _Joyce's_ voice was very husky--"she is what our _Milisent_ would have been, if the Lord had not stayed her right at the last minute." So then I knew that _Blanche Lewthwaite_ was found at last. There were none in the chamber, as it happed, but _Father_, _Mother_, and me, when _Aunt_ came in. "And what hath she to say?" asks _Mother_. "She will not talk of the past," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "and, God wot, I shall not ask her." "Is she very 'shamed and sorrowful?" "Never a whit. She is more angered than aught else." "Angered!--with whom?" "With _Providence_, I take it," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, something drily. "She counts a miracle should have been wrought for her to hinder her from sinning, and that since it were not, there can be no blame laid at her door." "So hard as that!" saith _Mother_. "May-be not all through," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer. "The crust seems thick at present: but there may be a soft spot deep down below. I shall work till I find it." "Is she not softened toward thee?" asks _Father_. "Me!" saith Aunt _Joyce_, with a bitter little laugh. "Why, so far as I can make out, I am but one step fairer than _Providence_ in her eyes. I gat not much flattery this even, I can tell you--no more than I had of _Milly_ a month gone. Nay, _Aubrey_. He that would save a sinner against his will must not expect thanks from him." "Shall I go to her, _Joyce_?" saith _Mother_, and rose up. "As thou wilt, _Lettice_," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Only, an' thou so dost, look not for any fair words save out of thine own mouth. She is in the green chamber. I locked her in." "Hath she had to eat?" saith _Mother_. "Ay; I saw to that ere I came below." _Mother_ went forth of the chamber. "May I see her, Aunt _Joyce_," said I, "or must I not?" "Better not at this present, _Nell_," she made answer. "But--I am not sure that it were not well for _Milly_." When _Mother_ came down again, she saith in a despairing voice, and spreading forth her hands-- "O _Joyce_, she is as hard as a stone!" "Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, quietly. "So, I reckon, was _Peter_, until the Lord turned and looked upon him. That melted him, _Lettice_. Leave us take _Blanche_ to the Lord."