“Hush! Milisent—thank God—thou art not as I. Thank God—and keep clean. Too late for me. Good-bye.”
“O Blanche, Blanche!” I sobbed through my tears. The look in her eyes was dreadful to me. “The Lord would fain have thee saved, and wherefore dost thou say ‘too late’?”
“I want it not,” she whispered.
“Blanche,” I cried in horror. “What canst thou mean? Not want to be saved from Hell! Not want to go to Heaven!”
“From Hell—ay. But not—to go to Heaven.”
“But there is none other place!” cried I.
“I know. Would there were!”
I believe I stood and gazed on her in amaze. I could not think what were her meaning, and I marvelled if she were not feather-brained (wandering, light-headed) somewhat.
“God is in Heaven,” she said. “I do not want God. Nor He me.”
I could not tell what to say. I was too horrified.