"What a ridiculous notion!" I cried. "Why, Margot, I simply could not do it. He is my father." "And what does my Damoiselle read in the holy Psalter? Is it not ’Like as a father pitieth his children, even so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him?’ Is He not Our Father?" "Yes, of course we expect the good God to take care of us," I replied. "But then, Margot, it is a different thing. And thou knowest He does not always take care of us in that way. He lets all sorts of things happen to hurt and grieve us." "Then, when my Damoiselle is ill, and Monseigneur sends off in hot haste for Messire Denys to come and bleed her in the foot, he is _not_ taking care of her? It hurts her, I think." "Oh, that has to be, Margot. As thou saidst, it is better than being ill." "And—let my Damoiselle bear with her servant—is there no ’must be’ with the good God?" "But I don’t see why, Margot. He could make us well all in a minute. Monseigneur cannot." "Yet suppose it is better that my Damoiselle should not be made well all in a minute, but should learn by suffering to be patient in sickness, and thankful for her usual good health? Did not Monseigneur Saint David say, ’It is good for me that I have been afflicted’?" "Oh, what a queer idea!" said I. "Is it?" quietly answered Marguerite. "I once heard a young noble lady say, about three years ago, that it was so delightful to feel well again after being ill, that it really was worth while going through the pain to reach it. And I think,—if I may be pardoned the allusion,—I think they called her the Damoiselle Elaine de Lusignan." I could not help laughing. "Well, I dare say I did say something like it. But, Margot, it is only when I am getting well that I think so. When I am well, to begin with, I don’t want to go through the pain again." "When my Damoiselle is truly well of the mortal disease of sin, she will never need to go through the pain again. But that will not be till the sin and the body are laid down together." "Till we die—dost thou mean that?" "Till we die." "O Margot! don’t. I hate to think of dying." "Yes. It is pleasanter to think of living. They are well for whom all the dying comes first, and the life is hereafter." "Well, I suppose I shall be all right," said I, jumping into bed. "Monseigneur pays my Church dues, and I hear the holy mass sung every day. I say my prayers night and morning, and in all my life I never was so wicked as to touch meat on a fast-day. I think, on the whole, I am a very good girl." "Will my Damoiselle be angry if I ask her whether the good Lord thinks the same?" "O Marguerite! how can I know?" "Because, if Father Eudes read it right, we do know. ’There is none that doeth good, no, not one.’"