"Let my Damoiselle pardon me. I did not know enough of her then. And she is not one to know in a minute. Some are like an open book, quickly read: and others are like a book in a strange tongue, of which one knows but little, and they have to be spelt out; and some, again, are like a locked book, which you cannot read at all without the key. Dame Eschine, if my Damoiselle pleases, is the book in the strange tongue; but the book is very good, and quite worth the trouble to learn it." "Where didst thou find such a comparison, Margot? Thou canst not read." "I? Ha!—no. But I can see others do it." "And what kind of book am I, Margot?" "Ha!—my Damoiselle is wide, wide open." "And the Lady Sybil?" asked I, feeling much amused. "Usually, open; but she can turn the key if she will." I was rather surprised. "And Count Guy?" "Quite as wide open as my Damoiselle." "Then where dost thou find thy locked book, Margot?" I was still more astonished at the answer. "If my Damoiselle pleases,—the Lady Isabel." "O Margot! I think she is quite easy to read." "I am mistaken," said Marguerite with quiet persistence, "if my Damoiselle has yet read one page of that volume." "Now I should have called the Regent a locked book," said I. "Hardly, if my Damoiselle pleases. There is a loose leaf which peeps out." "Well, that romance is not a pleasant one," said I. "Pleasant? Ha!—no. But it is long, and one cannot see the end of the story before one comes to it." At last, a letter has come from the Regent. It is quite different to what I expected. He approves of all that Guy has done, and more,—he actually thanks him for acting so promptly. (Are we misjudging the man?) The King is in good health, and the Regent thinks he will very shortly do well to return to the Holy City, as soon as the autumn rains are well over. The Lady Countess, he says, is suffering greatly, and he fears the damp weather increases her malady. He speaks quite feelingly about it, as though he really loved her. Early this morning was born dear Lady Sybil’s second baby—still, like Agnes, a little frail thing; and still a daughter. But Guy seems just as pleased with his child as if it were a healthy boy. He is so different from Amaury! Both Guy and Lady Sybil wish the infant to bear my name. So this evening the Patriarch is to christen her Helena,—thus placing her under the safe protection of the blessed Saint Helena, mother of the Lord Constantine the Emperor, and also of the holy Queen of Adiabene, who bestowed such toil and money on the holy shrines.