At that time I loved and hated instinctively, as I think children do; and at seventeen years, I was a child in all things save by the almanac. I could rarely tell why I did not love people--only, I did not love them. I knew oftener why I did. I never thought much of Sir Piers de Gavaston, that the King so dearly affected, but I never hated him in a deadly fashion, as some did that I knew. I loved better Sir Hugh Le Despenser, that was afterwards Earl of Gloucester, for he-- "Sissot," saith a voice behind me, "what is the name of that chronicle?" "I cannot tell, Jack," said I. "What wouldst have it called?" "`The Annals of Cicely,'" quoth he; "for she is beginning, middle, and end of it." I felt as though he had cast a pitcher of cold water over me. I sat looking at my parchment. "Read it over, prithee," saith he, "and count how many great I's be therein." So did I, and by my troth there were seventy-seven. Seventy-seven of me! and all in six leaves of parchment, forsooth. How many soever shall there be by the time I make an end? "That's an ill beginning, Jack!" said I, and I felt ready to cry. "Must I begin over again?" "Sissot," quoth he, "nothing is ever undone in this world." "What mean you?" said I. "There was man died the year before thou wert born," he made answer, "that was great friend of my father. He was old when my father was young, yet for all that were they right good friends. He was a very learned man; so wise in respect of things known but to few, that most men accounted him a very magician, and no good Christian. Howbeit, my father said that was but folly and slander. He told my father some of the strange matters that he found in nature; and amongst them, one thing, which hath ever stuck by me. Saith Friar Roger, Nothing is ever destroyed. Nothing that hath once had being, can ever cease to be." "Why, Jack!" cried I. "Verily that must be folly! I cast this scrap of parchment on the chafer, and it burneth up. It is gone, see thou. Surely it hath ceased to be?" "No," saith he. "It is gone into ashes and smoke." "What be ashes and smoke?" asked I, laughing. "Why, they be ashes and smoke," he made answer. "And the smoke curleth up chimney, and goeth out into the air: and the air cometh up Sissot's nose-thirls, and feedeth her bodily life; and Sissot maketh seventy-seven I's to six pages of parchment." "Now, Jack, softly!" said I. "So it is, my dame," pursueth he. "Every thing that dieth, feedeth somewhat that liveth. But I can go further an' thou wilt. Friar Roger thought (though he had not proved it) that every word spoken might as it were dwell in the air, and at bidding of God hereafter, all those words should return to life and be heard again by all the world." I could not help but laugh. "Why, what a din!" said I. "Do but think, all the words, in all languages, buzzing about man's ears, that were ever spoken since Adam dwelt in the Garden of Eden!"