“Priorsford would never look over its shoulder.  Augusta would miss me, yes, and some of the poor folk, but I’ve too ill-scrapit a tongue to be much liked.  Sorrow ought to make people more tender, but it made my tongue bitter.  To an unregenerate person with an aching heart like myself it is a relief to slash out at the people who annoy one by being too correct, or too consciously virtuous.  I admit it’s wrong, but there it is.  I’ve prayed for charity and discretion, but my tongue always runs away with me.  And I really can’t be bothered with those people who never say an ill word of anyone.  It makes conversation as savourless as porridge without salt.  One needn’t talk scandal.  I hate scandal—­but there is no harm in remarking on the queer ways of your neighbours:  anyone who likes can remark on mine.  Even when you are old and done and waiting for the summons it isn’t wrong surely to get amusement out of the other pilgrims—­if you can.  Do you know your Pilgrim’s Progress, Pamela?  Do you remember where Christiana and the others reach the Land of Beulah?  It is the end of the journey, and they have nothing to do but to wait, while the children go into the King’s gardens and gather there sweet flowers....  It is all true.  I know, for I have reached the Land of Beulah.  ‘How welcome is death,’ says Bunyan, ’to them that have nothing to do but to die.’  For the last twenty-five years the way has been pretty hard.  I’ve stumbled along very lamely, followed my Lord on crutches like Mr. Fearing, but now the end is in sight and I can be at ease.  All these years I have never been able to read the letters and diaries of my boys—­they tore my very heart—­but now I can read them without tears, and rejoice in having had such sons to give.  I used to be tortured by dreams of them, when I thought I held them and spoke to them, and woke to weep in agony, but now when they come to me I can wake and smile, satisfied that very soon they will be mine again.  Sorrow is a wonderful thing.  It shatters this old earth, but it makes a new heaven.  I can thank God now for taking my boys.  Augusta is a saint and acquiesced from the first, but I was rebellious.  I see that Heaven and myself had part in my boys; now Heaven has all, and all the better is it for the boys.  I hope God will forgive my bitterness, and all the grief I have given with words.  ’No suffering is for the present joyous ... nevertheless afterwards....’  When the Great War broke out and the terrible casualty lists became longer and longer, and ’with rue our hearts were laden,’ I found some of the ‘peaceable fruits’ we are promised.  I found I could go without impertinence into the house of mourning, even when I hardly knew the people, and ask them to let me share their grief, and I think sometimes I was able to help just a little.”

“I know how you helped,” said Pamela; “the Macdonalds told me.  Do you know, I think I envy you.  You have suffered much, but you have loved much.  Your life has meant something.  Looking back I’ve nothing to think on but social successes that now seem very small and foolish, and years of dressing and talking and dancing and laughing.  My life seems like a brightly coloured bubble—­as light and as useless.”