"But is He not with them in the sunlight?" asked Blanche shyly.

"He is alway with them, dear heart: but we see his light clearest when
other lights are out. And we be so prone to walk further off in the
daylight!--we see so many things beside Him. We would fain be running
off after birds and butterflies; fain be filling our hands with bright
flowers by the way: and we picture not rightly to ourselves that these
things are but to cheer us on as we step bravely forward, for there will
be flowers enough when we reach Home."

Blanche looked earnestly into the red embers, and was silent.

"Seest thou now, Blanche, what I meant in saying, I would not have thee
miss the gold?"

"I reckon you mean that God hath somewhat to give, better than what He
taketh away."

"Right, dear heart. Ah, how much better! Yet misconceive me not, my
child. We do not buy Heaven with afflictions; never think that,
Blanche. There be many that have made that blunder. Nay! the beggar
buyeth not thy gold with his penny piece. Christ hath bought Heaven for
His chosen: it is the purchase of His blood; and nothing else in all the
world could have paid for it. But they that shall see His glory yonder,
must be fitted for it here below; and oft-times God employeth sorrows
and cares to this end.--And now, Blanche, canst answer thine own
question, and tell me what I think of thee?"

Blanche blushed scarlet.

"I am afeared," she said, hanging down her head, "you must think me but
a right silly child."

Mrs Tremayne stroked Blanche's hair, with a little laugh.

"I think nothing very ill of thee, dear child. But I do think thou hast
made a blunder or twain."

"What be they?" Blanche wished to know, more humbly than she would have
done that morning.

"Well, dear Blanche--firstly, I think thou hast mistaken fancy for love.
There be many that so do. Many think they love another, when in truth
all they do love is themselves and their own pleasures, or the
flattering of their own vain conceits. Ask thine own heart what thou
lovest in thy lover: is it him, or his liking for thyself? If it be but
the latter, that is not love, Blanche. 'Tis but fancy, which is to love
as the waxen image to the living man. Love would have him it loveth
bettered at her own cost: it would fain see him higher and nobler--I
mean not higher in men's eyes, but nearer Heaven and God--whatever were
the price to herself. True love will go with us into Heaven, Blan