"They have easier lives, methinks, that are but one. You look on me, Dame Hilda, as who should say, What nonsense doth this maid talk! But if you knew what it was to have two natures within you, pulling you diverse ways, sometimes the one uppermost, and at times the other; and which of the twain be _you_, that cannot you tell--I will tell you, I have noted this many times"--Isabel's voice sank as if she feared to be overheard--"in them whose father and mother have been of divers dispositions. Some of the children may take after the one, and some after the other; but there will be one, at least, who partaketh both, and then they pull him divers ways, that he knoweth no peace." Isabel's audience had been larger than she supposed. As she ended, with a weary sigh, a soft hand fell upon her head, and I who, sat upon her knees, could better see than she, looked up into my Lady's face. "Sit still, daughter," said she, as Isabel strove to rise. "Nay, sweet heart, I am not angered at thy fantasy, though truly I, being but one like Dame Hilda, conceive not thy meaning. It may be so. I have not all the wit upon earth, that I should scorn or set down the words of them that speak out of other knowledge than mine. But, my Isabel, there is another way than this wherein thou mayest have two natures." "How so, Dame, an' it like you?" "The nature of sinful man, and the nature of God Almighty." "They must be marvellous saints that so have," said Dame Hilda, crossing herself. "Some of them," said my Lady gently, "were once marvellous sinners." "Why, you should have to strive a very lifetime for that," quoth Dame Hilda. "I should think no man could rise thereto that dwelt not in anchorite's cell, and scourged him on the bare back every morrow, and ate but of black rye-bread, and drank of ditch-water. Deary me, but I would not like that! I'd put up with a bit less saintliness, _I_ would!" "You are all out there, Dame," my Lady made answer. "This fashion of saintliness may be along with such matters, but it cometh not by their help." "How comes it then, Dame, an't like you?" "By asking for it," saith our mother, quietly. "Good lack! but which of the saints must I ask for it?" quoth she. "I'll give him all the wax candles in Ludlow, a week afore I die. I'd rather not have it sooner." "When go you about to die, Dame?" "Our Lady love us! That cannot I say." "Then you shall scarce know the week before, I think." "Oh, no! but the saint shall know. Look you, Dame, to be too much of a saint should stand sore in man's way. I could not sing, nor dance, nor lake me a bit, if I were a saint; and that fashion of saintliness you speak of must needs be sorest of all. If I do but just get it to go to Heaven with, that shall serve me the best." "I thought they sang in Heaven," saith Isabel. "Bless you, Damsel!--nought but Church music." "Dame Hilda, I marvel if you would be happy in Heaven." "Oh, I should be like, when I got there."