“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.”
“Sin is the most hardening thing in the world, dear heart,” saith Father, sadly.
So here is poor Blanche, locked of the green chamber, with Aunt Joyce for her waiting-maid, for none other will she have to enter—not even Mother, for her one talk with Blanche hath sore distressed her.
“Wait a while, Lettice,” saith Aunt Joyce: “I will bid thee when I reckon any good should come of it.”
Milisent hath been told, and seemeth much touched therewith: but none of us have yet seen Blanche. Poor heart! may the good Lord have mercy upon her!
Selwick Hall, January ye xii.
Mother, and I with her, went up this morrow to Mere Lea, to do Mistress Lewthwaite to wit touching Blanche. We found her right busy a-making of pies, and Alice by her paring of apples. She gave us good welcome, and we sat us down, and talked a short while of other matter. Then saith Mother:—
“Suffer me to ask at you, Mistress Lewthwaite, if you have heard ever any news of Blanche?”
Mistress Lewthwaite shaked her head sorrowfully.
“Nay, not we,” saith she. “It should be a good day we did. Albeit, her father is sore angered: yet methinks if he did verily stand face to face with the child, he should not be so hard on her as he talks now.”