"What was your worst loss, Agnes?" asked Marion.
Agnes had to think. "I scarce can tell," said she. "I were o'er young when my mother died to feel any loss."
"What happy maids be ye!" came softly from Lady Anne, who had listened hitherto without joining. "Dear damsels, I pray you to thank God that the worsest loss ye know is the loss of death."
"Can there be a worser, Madam?"
"Aye, Marion, there be losses in life far wofuller."
"Your Ladyship scarce speaks from your own knowledge, methinks."
"Aye, but I do!" answered the bride sadly. "We may lose our living, in a sorer fashion than our dead. The dead can go no further from us than they be: and the day cometh when we shall go to them. But the living may go further away from us till they never come back again: aye, and worser—for they may go further and further from God till they never come back to Him. And who shall measure the loss of a lost life?—who shall measure the loss of a lost soul?"
"Cheery talk for a bride of her wedding-eve!" muttered Marion, not for Lady Anne to hear.
Nor did she hear it. She sat by the table, resting her head upon her hand, and her thoughts evidently far away. Probably they were either on the life that lay before her, or on the father whom she might never see again.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed poor Jane, standing up from the cramped position in which she had been hunting for the missing locket. "I must give it up till daylight come. Our sweet Lady grant it be not truly lost!"