I guess Mother saw that I did somewhat shrink from the thought. In truth, though I have seen Blanche in church, and know how she looketh, yet I have never yet spoke with her sithence she came home, and I feel fearful, as though I were going into a chamber where was somewhat might hurt me.
“My Milisent,” saith Mother—and that is what she calls me at her tenderest—“I would not hurt thee but for thine own good. And I know, dear heart, that few matters do more good than for a sinner to be shown that whereto he might have come, if the Lord had not hedged up his way with thorns. ’Tis not alway—I might say ’tis not often—that we be permitted to see whither the way should have led that the Father would not have us to take. And, my dear heart, thou art of thy nature so like thy foolish mother, that I can judge well what should be good for thee.”
“Nay, Mother, dear heart! I pray you, call not yourself names,” said I, kissing her hand.
“I shall be of my nature foolish, Milly, whether I do so call myself or no,” saith Mother, laughing.
“And truly, the older I grow, the more foolish I think myself in my young days.”
“Shall I so do, Mother, when I am come to your years?” said I, also laughing.
“I hope so, Milly,” saith she. “I am afeared, if no, thy wisdom shall then be small.”
Selwick Hall, February ye xvii.
I have seen Blanche Lewthwaite, and I do feel to-night as though I should never laugh again. Verily, O my God, the way of the transgressors is hard!
She lies of her bed, scarce able to speak, and that but of an hoarse whisper. Dr Bell hath given order that she shall not be suffered to talk but to make known her wants or to relieve her mind, though folk may talk to her so long as they weary her not. We came in, brought of Alice, and Mother sat down by the bed, while I sat in the window with Alice.