ck to thee the maiden I was of old, than thou. Rest,
maid; and do what thou wilt and canst with that which is."

"What can I?" said Maude bitterly. "At least thou canst tell me what
hath wrought this fearful change in thee."

"Can I?" replied Avice, seating herself on the window-seat, and
motioning her cousin to do the same. "And what shall I say it were--
call it light or darkness, love or hate? For six months after I left
home I was right woesome. (It is all gone, Maude--the old cottage, and
the forge, and the elms--they razed them all!) And then there came into
my life a fair false face, and a voice that spake well, and an heart
that was black as night. And I trusted him, for I loved him. Loved
him--ay, better than all the saints in Heaven! I could have died to
save a pang of pain to him, and smiled in doing it. But he was false,
false, false! And on the day that I knew it--O that horrible day!--my
love turned to black hate within me. I knelt and prayed that my wrong
should be avenged--that some sorrow should befal him. But I never meant
that. Holy Mary, Lady of Sorrows, thou knewest I never meant that! And
that very night I knelt and prayed, he died on the field of battle far
away. I knew not he was in danger till four days after. When I so did,
I prayed as fervently for his safety. The old love came back upon me,
and I could have rent the heavens if my weak hands had reached them, to
undo that fearful prayer. But she heard me not--she, the Lady of Pity!
She had heard me once too well. And fifteen days later, I knew that I
was a widow--that he had died that night, with none to pillow his head
or wipe the death-dews from his brow--died unassoiled, unatoned with
either God or me! And I had done it. Child, my heart was closed up
that day as with a wall of stone. It will never open again. It is not
my love that is dead--it is my heart."

"But, Hawise, hadst no masses sung for his soul?" asked Maude in loving
pity.

"Too late," she said, dropping her face upon her hands. "Too late!"

"Too late for what?" softly inquired a third voice--so gently and
compassionately that no annoyance could be felt.

Avice was silent, and Maude answered for her.

"For the winning of a soul from Purgatory that hath passed thither
without housel ne chrism."

"Too late for the mercy of God?" replied Hugh Calverley gently. "For
the housel and the chrism, they be mercies of man. But the mercies of
God are infi