The woman laughed--a bitter, harsh laugh, in which there was no mirth. "The devil keepeth," she said. "At least so say the priests. But what wit they? They never went thither to see. They will, belike, some day." The little girl was silent again, and the mother, after a moment's pause, resumed her interrupted soliloquy. "If there were nought beyond, only!" she murmured; and her look and tone of dull misery sharpened into vivid pain. "If a man might die, and have done with it all! But to meet God! And 'tis no sweven, [dream] ne fallacy, this dread undeadliness [immortality]--it is real. O all ye blessed saints and martyrs in Heaven! how shall I meet God?" "Is that holy Mary's Son, Mother?" "Ay." "Holy Mary will plead for us," suggested the child. "She can alway peace her Son. But methought _He_ was good to folks, Mother. Sister Christian was wont to say so." "To saints and good women like Sister Christian, may-be." "Art thou not good, Mother?" The question was put in all innocence. But it struck the heart of the miserable mother like a poisoned arrow. "Good!" she cried, again in that tone of intense pain. "_I_ good? No, Maude!--I am bad, bad, bad! From the crown of mine head to the sole of my foot, there is nothing in me beside evil; such evil as thou, unwemmed [undefiled, innocent] dove as thou art, canst not even conceive! God is good to saints--not to sinners. Sister Christian--and thou, yet!--be amongst the saints. I am of the sinners." "But why art thou not a saint, Mother?" demanded the child, as innocently as before. "I was on the road once," said the woman, with a heavy sigh. "I was to have been an holy sister of Saint Clare. I knew no more of ill than thou whiteling in mine arms. If I had died then, when my soul was fair!" Suddenly her mood changed. She clasped the child close to her breast, and showered kisses on the little wan face. "My babe Maude, my bird Maude!" she said. "My dove that God sped down from Heaven unto me, thinking me not too ill ne wicked to have thee! The angels may love thee, my bird in bower! for thou art white and unwemmed. The robes of thy chrism [see Note 1] are not yet soiled; but, O sinner that I am! how am I to meet God? And I must meet Him--and soon." "Did not God die on the rood, Mother?" The woman assented, the old listless tone returning to her voice. "Wherefore, Mother?" "God wot, child." "Sister Christian told me He had no need for Himself, but that He loved us; yet why that should cause Him to die I wis not."