Really, how very, very little, people do know themselves! If there be a patient creature in this world, it is Eschine: and if there be an impatient one, it is Lady Isabel. I wonder whether I know myself? I do not think I should have set myself down as proud of my intellect. But we Lusignans always have had brains—except Amaury; he has stepped out of the ranks. And I don’t like people to disagree with me, and contradict me, nor to behave as if they thought I had no sense. That is true enough. I suppose I must be proud. And yet, it cannot be wrong to know that one has brains. What is pride? Where does the knowledge end, and the sin begin? Oh dear! how is one ever to know? If two and two would only make four in every thing! Or is it that one makes mistakes one’s self in the adding-up? Lady Judith asked me this morning if I was vexed with her yesterday, for what she said of me. "Oh no!" I answered at once. "But I did not know that I was proud of my intellect. I think I knew that I was proud of my rank." "Thou art right there, my child," she said. "Yet I fear the pride of intellect is more likely to harm thee, just because thou art less conscious of it." "Holy Mother," said I, "do you think my sister Eschine the best of us?" "We human creatures, Helena, are poor judges of each other. But if thou wouldst know—so far as I am able to judge—I think the two holiest persons in all this Palace are Eschine and thine old Margarita." "Better than Lady Sybil!" I cried. "I do not undervalue Sybil. She is good and true; and I believe she does earnestly desire to serve God. But it seems to me that the most Christ-like spirit I know is not Sybil, but Eschine." I must think about it, and study Eschine. I certainly made a sad mistake when I thought there was nothing in her. But the holiest person in the house! That seems very strange to me. I believe, now, that what I took for absence of feeling is a mixture of great humility and profound self-control. But the queerest thing is, that I think she really loves Amaury. And how any creature can love Amaury is a puzzle to me. For no being with an atom of brains can look up to him: and how can you love one whom you cannot respect? Besides which, he evidently despises Eschine—I believe he does all women—and he scolds and snubs her from morning to night for everything she does or does not do. Such treatment as that would wear my love in holes—If it were possible for me ever to feel any for such an animal as Amaury. If I were Eschine, I should be anxious to get as far away from him as I could, and should be delighted when he relieved me of his company. Yet I do think Eschine really misses him, and will be honestly glad when he comes back, It is very unaccountable.