ght a low murmur from Mr _Norris'_ lips, "Passing the love of
women!" Then he held out his hand, and Aunt _Joyce_ drew it upon her
arm and led him into her privy parlour.

I left them alone till she called me. To that interview there should be
no third save God.

Nor was it much that I heard at after. Some dread accident had happed
him, at after which his sight had departed, and his hair had gone white
in a few weeks. He had counted himself so changed that none should know
him. I doubt if he should not have been hid safe enough from any eyes
save hers.

He lived about three months thereafter. Never in all my life saw I man
that spake of his past life with more loathing and contrition. Even in
death, raptures of thanksgiving had he none. He could not, as it
seemed, rise above an humble trust that God would be as good as His
word, and that for _Christ's_ sake he that had confessed his sins and
forsaken them should find mercy.

He alway said that it was one word of Aunt _Joyce_ that had given him
even so much hope. She had said to him, that day in the copse, after
she had sent away _Milisent_ and me,--"I shall never give thee up,
_Leonard_. I shall never cease praying for thee, till I know thou art
beyond all prayer."

"It was those prayers, _Joyce_, that brought me back," he said. "After
mine accident, I had been borne into a cot by the way-side, where as I
lay abed in the back chamber, I could not but hear the goodman every day
read the _Scriptures_ to his household. Those _Scriptures_ seethed in
mine heart, and thy prayers were alway with me. It was as though they
fitted one into the other. I thought thou hadst prayed me into that
cot, for I might have been carried into some godless house where no such
thing should have chanced me. But ever and anon, mixed with God's Word,
I heard thy words, and thy voice seemed as if it called to me,--`Come
back! come back!' I thought, if there were so much love and mercy in
thee, there must be some left in God."

The night that Mr _Norris_ was buried in the churchyard of _Minster
Lovel_, as we sat again our two selves by the fireside, Aunt _Joyce_
saith to me, or may-be to herself--

"I should think I may go now."

"Whither, _Aunt_?" said I.

"Home, _Edith_," she made answer. "Home--to _Leonard_ and _Anstace_,
and to _Christ_. The work that was set me is done. `_Nunc dimittis,
Domine_!'"

"Dear Aunt _Joyce_," said I, "I want you for ever so long yet."