It was not for some hours that I saw the Regent’s letter; not till Lady Sybil’s bitter wailing had died down to peace, and we were able to turn our eyes from the past to the future. Then Guy showed it me. I was astonished at the quiet matter-of-fact way in which Count Raymond recognised Lady Sybil’s right, and deferred to Guy as the person to decide upon every thing. I asked Lady Judith, this morning, what she thought it meant. Was this man better than we had supposed? Had we been unjust to him? "I cannot tell yet, Helena," she said; "but I think we shall know now very soon. It either bodes great good to Sybil,—or else most serious mischief." "He says no word about his Lady Countess," I suggested. "No," said Lady Judith. "I should have liked it better if he had done." "Then what can we do?" I asked. "Wait and pray," responded she. "Wait!" Oh dear me!—it is always waiting. I detest it. Why can’t things happen in a lump and get done with themselves? Count Raymond—for I must give over calling him the Regent,—(and dear me! I must learn to call Lady Sybil the Queen as soon as she is crowned,—however shall I do it?)—Count Raymond says, in the end of his letter, that he will reach the Holy City, if it please the saints, about ten days hence, with the coffin of the young Lord King, that he may be laid with his fathers in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. So, I suppose, for these ten days we shall know nothing. I would scratch them out of the calendar, if I had pumice-stone of the right quality. And yet—it comes over me, though I do hate to think it!—suppose these ten days should be the last days of peace which we are to know! "Holy Mother, how _can_ you wait to know things?" I asked Lady Judith. "How canst thou?" said she with a little laugh. "Why, I must!" said I. "But as to doing it patiently!"—— "It is easier to wait patiently than impatiently, my child." "O holy Mother!" cried I. "It is," she gently persisted. "But that patience, Helena, is only to be had from God." "But can you help longing to know?" said I. "Rebelliously and feverishly thirsting to know, I can. But it is only in God’s strength that I can do it. Certainly I cannot help feeling that I shall be relieved when His time is come. I should be more or less than woman, if I could." "But how," said I, "do you keep yourself patient?" "_He_ keeps me patient, Helena. I cannot keep myself. He knows: He is at the helm: He will guide me to the haven where I would be. Ah, my child, thou hast yet to learn what that meaneth,—’When He giveth quietness, who shall then condemn?’" Indeed I have. And I do not know how to begin.