"Then several of the nobles pressed it upon her, endeavouring to show her the advantages to be derived from the divorce." "Advantages!" I cried. "To the country, dear," said Lady Judith gently. "But for four hours she held out. No word was to be wrung from her but ’I could not dream of such a thing!’ ’Then, Lady,’ said the Lord Count of Edessa, ’you can no longer be our Queen.’" "And did that sway her?" I cried indignantly. "Nothing seemed to sway her, till Count Guy rose himself, and, though with faltering lips, earnestly entreated her assent. Then she gave way so far as to promise to consider the question." That was like Guy. If he thought it for her good, I am sure he would urge it upon her, though it broke his own heart. But for her to give way _then_——! "Holy Mother, tell me she will not do it!" I cried. "She has locked herself up, to think and pray," said Lady Judith. "But it is well to know the worst at once,—I think she will, Helena." "Holy Mother, you must have gone mad!" I did not mean to be rude. I was only in too great agony to see any thing but itself. And Lady Judith seemed to understand. "Who proposed it?" I demanded. Ah! I knew what the answer would be. "Count Raymond of Tripoli." "Well, he cannot be the one she weds!" said I, grinding my teeth. "He can, Helena. The Countess has been dead these four months. He says he wrote to tell us, and his letter must have miscarried." "And is Satan to have it all his own way?" I cried. "No, assuredly, dear child. Christ is stronger than he." "Holy Mother, can you see one speck of light in this thick and horrible darkness?" "I never see but one light in any darkness," she said. "’God is light, and darkness in Him there is none at all.’ Dear Helena, wilt thou not put thine hand in His, and let Him lead thee to the light?" "Could the good God not have prevented all this?" I wailed. "Perhaps not, for thy sake," she said softly. "Oh, she will not, she will not!" I moaned. "Holy Mother, tell me she never will!" "I cannot, dear. On the contrary, I think she will." "I never could have believed it of Lady Sybil!" Lady Judith made no reply; but I thought the expression of pain deepened in her face. "Dear Helena," was her gentle answer, "sometimes we misunderstand our friends. And very often we misunderstand our Father." She tried to comfort me: but I was past comfort. I was past food, sleep,—every thing. I went to bed,—it was a miserable relief to get away from the daylight; but I could not sleep, and no tears would come. Only one exceeding bitter cry,— "Help me, Jesu Christ!" Would He help me? What had I ever been to Him, or done for Him, that He should? He had shed His life-blood on the holy rood for me; and I had barely ever so much as thanked Him for it. I had never cared about Him. Where was the good of asking Him?