Softly Aunt Joyce made answer. “‘Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty; they shall behold the Land that is very far off.’”
Madge’s head came up from the pillow. “Eh, that’s grand! And that’s Him?”
“Ay, my maid.”
“Ay, that’s like,” saith she. “It couldn’t be nobody else. And Him that could make th’ roses and lilies mun be good to look at. ’Tisn’t always so now: but I reckon they’ve things tidy up yon. They’ll fit like, ye ken. But, Mistress Joyce, do ye tell me, will us be any wiser up yon?”
I saw the water in Aunt Joyce’s eyes, as she arose; and she bent down and kissed Madge on the brow.
“Dear heart,” quoth she, “thou shalt know Him then as well as He knows thee. Is that plenty, Madge?”
“I reckon ’tis a bit o’ t’other side,” saith Madge, with her eyes gleaming. But when I came to kiss her the next minute, quoth she—“Mistress Milisent, saw ye e’er Mistress Joyce when she had doffed her?”
“Ay, Madge,” said I, marvelling what notion was now in her poor brain.
“And,” saith she, “be there any wings a-growing out of her shoulders? Do tell me. I’d like to know how big they were by now.”
“Nay, Madge; I never saw any.”