This morrow, as I was sat a-work alone in the great chamber, come my Lady Stafford, with her broidery in her hand, and sat her down beside me. And ere many minutes were passed, saith she—
“Helen, I have been to see Blanche.”
“And is she still so hard, my Lady?” said I.
“I should not call her mood hard,” saith she. “I think she is very, very sorry, and would fain not have us see it. But,” she paused a moment, and then went on, “it is the worldly sorrow which causeth death.”
“Your Ladyship would say?”
“She is right sorry for my Lady Everett, for the great lady she thought to have been, and the grand life she looked to lead: but for Blanche Lewthwaite as a sinner before God, methinks she is not sorry at all.”
“’Tis a sad case,” said I.
My Lady Stafford gave me no answer, and when I looked up at her, I saw her dark eyes fastened on the white clouds which were floating softly across the blue, and her eyes so full that they all-to (nearly) ran o’er.
“Helen,” she saith, “hast thou any idea what is sin?”
“Truly, Madam, I think so,” I made answer.