_Madge's_ head came up from the pillow. "Eh, that's grand! And that's
Him?"

"Ay, my maid."

"Ay, that's like," saith she. "It couldn't be nobody else. And Him
that could make th' roses and lilies mun be good to look at. 'Tisn't
always so now: but I reckon they've things tidy up yon. They'll fit
like, ye ken. But, Mistress _Joyce_, do ye tell me, will us be any
wiser up yon?"

I saw the water in Aunt _Joyce's_ eyes, as she arose; and she bent down
and kissed _Madge_ on the brow.

"Dear heart," quoth she, "thou shalt know Him then as well as He knows
thee. Is that plenty, _Madge_?"

"I reckon 'tis a bit o' t'other side," saith _Madge_, with her eyes
gleaming. But when I came to kiss her the next minute, quoth
she--"Mistress _Milisent_, saw ye e'er Mistress _Joyce_ when she had
doffed her?"

"Ay, _Madge_," said I, marvelling what notion was now in her poor brain.

"And," saith she, "be there any wings a-growing out of her shoulders?
Do tell me. I'd like to know how big they were by now."

"Nay, _Madge_; I never saw any."

"No did ye?" quoth she, in a disappointed tone. "I thought they'd have
been middling grown by now. But may-be He keeps th' wings till we've
got yon? Ay, I reckon that's it. She'll have 'em all right, some day."

And _Madge_ seemed satisfied.

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE XVI.
Yester-morn, Dr _Bell_ being at church, _Mother_ was avised to ask him,
if it might stand with his conveniency, to look in on _Madge_ the next
time he rideth that way, and see if aught might be done for her. He
saith in answer that he should be a-riding to _Thirlmere_ early this
morrow, and would so do: and this even, on his way home, he came in
hither to tell _Mother_ his thought thereon. 'Tis even as we feared,
for he saith there is no doubt that _Madge_ is dying, nor shall she
overlive many days. But right sorry were we to hear him say that he did
marvel if she or _Blanche Lewthwaite_ should go the first.

"Why, Doctor!" saith _Mother_, "I never reckoned _Blanche_ so far gone
as that."

"May-be not when you saw her, Lady _Lettice_," saith he. "But--women be
so perverse! Why, the poor wretch might have lived till this summer
next following, or even (though I scarce think it) have tided o'er
another winter, but she must needs take it into her foolish head to rush
forth into the garden, to say a last word to somebody, a frosty bitter
even some ten days back,