"Nothing—nothing—worth living for, but to serve God. Tell him from me! I would give anything now to have lived a different life! . . . Too late for that! . . . There is forgiveness, but oh, to have lived for Him! . . . The pitifulness of coming to Him only at last! . . . The difference now if I had lived for Him! Don't put off! Pray to be shown!" These sentences Lettice would never forget. They were stamped upon her brain. She knew that Cecilia had spoken to Prue of no longer fearing to die. But then, why these burning regrets? What did Sissie wish to have done differently? And what did she mean that Lettice was to do? Lettice would lie and think herself into a maze of bewilderment; yet in her shyness, in her dread of seeming to blame Sissie, she could not endure to speak out. But the pressure became at length too severe, intensified as it was by the knowledge that very soon she would have no one whom she could ask. When Prue came to her room, on the last evening of all, she found Lettice waiting for her, wide awake. "Not asleep yet, my dear." "No. I want to speak. I must say it before I go. Please come and sit here. I want to know what she meant." Prue obeyed, with an arm round Lettice. "What who meant?" "You know. She—the last time I saw her—you were there. When she said I was to tell Felix." "I understand." "What did she mean? I don't know." "It is eleven o'clock, and you have a journey to-morrow. I wish you had not put off till now." "I couldn't say anything sooner. And I can't go without knowing." "Try to tell me exactly what it is that you want explained." "I don't know what she meant. She said to you she wasn't afraid . . . And she told me about—there was pardon . . . and yet she said—said—it would have been so different—if only—if only—" Lettice caught back a sob. "You know, don't you? Please tell me. I'm always thinking, and I can't understand." Prue drew the child's head down on her shoulder. "It is not so very difficult," she said. "Would you be satisfied now, looking back, if you felt that you had always neglected and ignored Sissie, forgotten her wishes, disobeyed her, and only pleased yourself—even if at the last she had forgiven it all! I think that the more entirely she forgave you, the more you would long to have loved her, and to have shown your love." "I did love her," in a whisper. "You did and do. No need to speak of the love as past. You love her, and she loves you; only for a while you are parted. But how different it would be now if you had not loved; if you had been cold, and hard, and neglectful. Now do you see what I mean? Sissie only learnt in those last few weeks how much she owed to our dear Lord, how cold and neglectful she had been to Him. She learnt too how ready He is to forgive; and she asked Him to forgive her. And I know that she was heard. Her fear of death was taken away.