“But if you should be hurt, Aunt!” cried I.
“Well, what so?” saith she. “He were a poor soldier that were afeared to be hurt in his King’s battles. But if it be as I think, Nell, there is no fear thereof. And if there were, mine ease is of less moment than a sinner’s soul. Nay, dear maid, take thine heart to thee (cheer up). There is more with me than all the constables in Cumberland. ‘Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He,—in heaven, and in the earth, and in the seas, and in all deep places.’ I am not afeared, Nell.”
And away trudged she, without an other word. But I sat on thorns till, about seven o’ the clock, she came into the great chamber, her hood and cloak doffed.
“Why, Joyce, I had lost thee,” saith Mother, looking up brightly from her sewing.
“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.