"What dost thou mean, Margot?" "Will the dear Damoiselle not come and try? She will want rest, some day." "Had I not better wait till I am tired?" said I, laughingly. "Ah, yes! we never want rest till we are tired.—But not wait to come to the merciful Lord. Oh no, no!" "Nay, I cannot comprehend thee, Margot." "No, my Damoiselle. She is not likely to know how to come until she wants to do it. When she does want it, the good God will hear the Damoiselle, for He heard her servant." "Didst thou entreat the intercession of Saint Marguerite?" "Ah, no. I am but an ignorant old woman. The dear Lord said, ’Come unto _Me_.’ And I thought, perhaps, He meant it. So I just went." "But how couldst thou, Margot?" "If it please my Damoiselle, I did it. And if He had been angry, I suppose He would not have heard me." "But how dost thou know He did hear thee?" "When the Damoiselle entreats Monseigneur to give her a silver mark, and he opens his purse and gives it, is it possible for her to doubt that he has heard her? The good God must have heard me, because He gave me rest." "I do not understand, Margot, what thou meanest by rest. And I want to know all about it. Have things given over puzzling thee? Is there some light come upon them?" "It seems to me, Damoiselle, if I be not too bold in speaking my poor thoughts"—— "Go on," said I. "I want to know them." "Then, my Damoiselle, it seems to me that there are two great lights in which we may see every thing in this world. The first is a fierce light, like the sun. But it blinds and dazzles us. The holy angels perchance can bear it, for it streams from the Throne of God, and they stand before that Throne. But we cannot. Our mortal eyes must be hidden in that dread and unapproachable light. And if I mistake not, it is by this light that the Damoiselle has hitherto tried to see things, and no wonder that her eyes are dazzled. But the other light soothes and enlightens. It is soft and clear, like the moonlight, and it streams from the Cross of Calvary. There the good God paid down, in the red gold of His own blood, the price of our redemption. It must have been because He thought it worth while. And if He paid such a price for a poor villein woman like me, He must have wanted me. The Damoiselle would not cast a pearl into the Vienne for which she had paid a thousand crowns. And if He cared enough about me to give His life for me, then He must care enough to be concerned about my welfare in this lower world. The Damoiselle would not refuse a cup of water to him to whom she was willing to give a precious gem. Herein lies rest. What the good God, who thus loves me, wills for me, I will for myself also." "But, Marguerite, it might be something that would break thine heart." "Would the blessed Lord not know that? But I do not think He breaks hearts that are willing to be His. He melts them. It is the hearts that harden themselves like a rock which have to be broken."