It may be that she which crieth sore and telleth out all her griefs,
hath far less a burden to carry than she which bolts the door of her
heart o'er it, so that the world reckoneth her to have no griefs at all.
In good sooth, I have found _Anstace_ right when she said the only safe
confidant for most was _Jesu Christ_.

Well! It is ever best to let by-gones be by-gones. Only there be
seasons when they will not be gone, but insist on coming back and
abiding with you for a while. And one of those seasons is come to me
this eve, after reading of this Chronicle.

Ay, _Joyce Morrell_, thou art but a poor weak soul, and that none
knoweth better than thyself. Let the world reckon thee such, and
welcome. And in very deed I would fain have _Christ_ so to reckon me,
for then should He take me in His arms with the little lambs, in the
stead of leaving me to trot on alongside with the strong unweary sheep.

Yes, they call a woman's heart weak that will go on loving, through evil
report and good report,--through the deep snows of long absence, and the
howling storms of no love to meet it, and the black gulfs of utter
unworthiness.

Be it so. I confess them all. But I go on hoping against all hope, and
when even hope seems as though it died within me, I go on loving still.

Was it for any love or lovesomeness of mine that God loved me?

O my hope once so bright, my treasure that was mine once, my love that
might have been! Every morrow and every night I pray God to bring thee
back from that far country whither thou art gone,--home to the Father's
house. If I may find thee on the road home, well, so much the sweeter
for me. But if not, let us only meet in the house of the Father, and I
ask no more.

I know thou hast loved many, with that alloyed metal thou dignifiest by
the name. But with the pure gold of a true heart that God calls love,
none hath ever loved thee as I have,--may-be none hath ever loved thee
but me.

God knoweth,--thee and me. God careth. God will provide. Enough, O
fainting heart! Get thee back into the clefts of the Rock that is
higher than thou. Rest, and be still.

SELWICK HALL, APRIL YE III.
I could write no more last night. It was better to cast one's self on
the sand (as _Ned_ saith men do in the great Desert of _Araby_) and
leave the tempest sweep o'er one's head. I come back now to the life of
every day--that quiet humdrum life (as _Mi