"Ah, my little Lynette!" he said. "If thy blessed mother had but lived! I know not—truly I know not—whether I act for thy real welfare or not. The good God forgive our blunders, poor blindlings that we are!" And he rose and went away. But of course it must be for my welfare that I should go to Guy, and get some appointment in the household of one of the Princesses, and see life, and—well, I don’t know about getting married. I might not have so much of my own way. And I like that dearly. Besides, if I were married I could not be always with Guy. I think I won’t, on the whole. I asked Marguerite to-night if she could tell why holy people did not wash: and she said she thought they did. "Well," said I, "but yonder holy palmer had not taken his clothes off for three years; and I am sure, Margot, he did not smell nice." "I think," said Marguerite, "under leave of my Damoiselle, he would have been at least as holy if he had changed them once a month." "O Margot! is not that heterodoxy?" asked I, laughing. "Let my Damoiselle pardon her servant—no! Did not Monseigneur Saint Paul himself say that men should wash their bodies with pure water?" "I am sure I don’t know," said I. "I always thought, the holier you were, and the dirtier. And that is one reason why I always thought, too, that I could never be holy. I should want my hands and face clean, at least." "Did my Damoiselle think she could never be holy?" "Yes, I did, Margot, and do." "Wherefore? Let her forgive her poor servant." "Oh, holiness seems to mean all sorts of unpleasant things," said I. "You must not wash, nor lie on a comfortable bed, nor wear anything nice, nor dance, nor sing, nor have any pleasure. I don’t want to be holy. I really could not do with it, Margot." "Under my Damoiselle’s leave, all those things she has mentioned seem to me to be outside things. And—unless I mistake, for I am but an ignorant creature—holiness must be something inside. My soul is inside of me; and to clean my soul, I must have something that will go inside to it. The inside principle will be sure to put all the outside things straight, will it not? But I do not see what the outside things can do to the inside—except that sometimes they make us cross. But then it is we who are wrong, not they." "Dost thou suppose it is wicked to be cross, Margot?" "Damoiselle, Father Eudes once read a list of the good things that a true Christian ought to have in his heart,—there were nine of them: ’love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.’ I think one cannot have many of them when one is cross and peevish." "Then thou dost not think it sinful to delight in fine clothes and jewels, and lie in a soft bed, and have dainties for dinner?—for all those are outside." "Ha! yes, my Damoiselle. Those are the world’s substitute for happiness." "Now, what dost thou mean, Margot?" laughed I. "Have I not all these good things?—and am I not happy?"