“Ay, Nell, he is a black Papist. When we all came forth of Babylon, he tarried therein.”
“And what came of her you called Mary, if it please you, Aunt?” quoth I.
“She was wed to one that dwelt at a distance from those parts, Edith,” saith Aunt Joyce, in the constrained tone wherein she had begun her story. “And sithence then have I heard at times of Leonard, though never meeting him,—but alway as of one that was journeying from bad to worse—winning hearts and then breaking them. Since Queen Elizabeth came in, howbeit, heard I never word of him at all: and I knew not if he were in life or no, till I set eyes on his face yesterday.”
We were all silent till Aunt Joyce saith gently—
“Well, Milly,—should we have been more kinder if we had let thee alone to break thine heart, thinkest?”
“It runneth not to a certainty that mine should be broke, because others were,” mutters Milly stubbornly.
“Thou countest, then, that he which had been false to a thousand maids should be true to the one over?” saith Aunt Joyce, with a pitying smile. “Well, such a thing may be possible,—once in a thousand times. Hardly oftener, methinks, my child. But none is so blind as she that will not see. I must leave the Lord to open thine eyes,—for I wis He had to do it for me.”
And Aunt Joyce rose up and went away.
“I marvel who it were she called Mary,” said I.
“Essay not to guess, dear heart,” saith Helen quickly. “’Tis plain Aunt Joyce would not have us know.”