"So hard?" said I coldly. "I hope I do. If your heart had not been harder than the nether millstone, Lady Sybil, you would never, never have required our presence at your coronation. God give you what you deserve!" "That is a terrible prayer, in general," she said, turning and meeting my eyes. "And yet, Lynette, in this one thing, I dare to echo it. Ay, God render unto me what I deserve!" How could she? Oh, how could she? Lady Judith kissed me, and I went away. I believe Sybil would have kissed me too, but I would not have it from her. It was easy, after that, to say farewell to the rest. "I wish I were going too!" growled Amaury. Then why does he not? He might if he chose. Just like Amaury! "Farewell, dear," said Eschine. "I shall miss thee, Elaine." —And nobody else. Yes, I know that. So we go forth. Driven out of our Paradise, like Adam and Eva. But the flaming sword is held by no angel of God. I always thought it such a dreadful thing, that our first parents should be driven out of Paradise. Why could not God have let them stay? It was not as if He had wanted it for the angels. If He had meant to use it for any thing, it would be on the earth now. I cannot understand! Oh, why, why, _why_ are all these terrible things? "I cannot understand either," says old Marguerite. "But I can trust the good God, and I can wait till He tells me. I am happier than my Damoiselle,—always wanting to know." Well, I see that I marvel if there is any maiden upon earth much more miserable than I am. Last night, only, I caught myself wishing—honestly wishing—that I could change with Marguerite, old and poor as she is. It must be such a comfort to think of God as she does. It seems to answer for every thing. The sultry quiet here is something almost unendurable to me. There is nothing in the world to see or hear but the water-carriers crying "The gift of God!" and strings of camels passing through the gateway, and women washing or grinding corn in the courts. And there is nothing to do but wait and bear, and prepare, after a rather sluggish fashion, for our return home when the coronation is over. Here, again, old Marguerite is better off than I am, for she has constantly things which she must do. I do not think it likely that Amaury will come with us. Things never take hold of him long. If he be furiously exasperated on Monday, he is calmly disgusted on Tuesday, supremely content on Wednesday, and by Thursday has forgotten that he was ever otherwise. And he seems disposed to make his home here. To me, it looks as though my life divided itself naturally into two portions, and the four years I have passed here were the larger half of it. I seem to have been a woman only since I came here. Three months to wait!—and all the time we are waiting for a dreadful ordeal, which we know must come. Why does Lady Sybil give us this suffering? And far more, why, why does the good God give it to us?