"All these,—ah, yes. But, happy? No, no. My Damoiselle is not happy." "Why, what wilt thou say next?" cried I. "Will my Damoiselle permit her poor servant to ask her a question?" "Oh yes!—anything thou wilt." "Then is my Damoiselle quite certain—safely, happily certain—what will become of her when she shall die?" "O Margot, what an ugly question! I hate to think of it Why, I suppose I shall go to Heaven—why should I not? Don’t all nobles go there, except those who are very, very wicked?" "Ha! She hates to think of it? Wherefore?" "Why, everybody does, of course." "Let my Damoiselle pardon me. Not I." "Oh, thou art an old woman, and hast outlived thy youth and its pleasures. No wonder." "My Damoiselle will find, as life goes on, that the older she grows, the more distasteful that thought becomes to her. That is, unless she should learn to be happy, which may the good God grant!" I could not help laughing heartily. For a young noble maiden like me, to take lessons of a forlorn old creature like Margot, in the art of being happy, did seem so very ridiculous. "Ah, my Damoiselle may laugh now," said Marguerite in her quiet way; "but I have told the sober truth." "Oh dear!" said I. "I think I had better sleep on it.—Margot, art thou not very much pleased at the thought of going to the Holy Land?" "Ah, yes, my Damoiselle, very much. I would dearly like to behold the earth which the feet of the blessed Lord have trodden,—the lake on which He walked, and the hill from which He went up. Ah! ’He shall so come’—’this same Jesus’!" I looked at her in astonishment. The worn old face and sunken eyes seemed alight with some hidden rapture. I could not understand her. "And the Holy Sepulchre!" I said; for that is holiest of all the holy places, as everybody knows. "Well, I should not so much care to see that," answered Marguerite, to my surprise. "’He is not there; He is risen.’ If a dear friend of mine had gone on a journey, I should not make a pet of the saddle on which he rode away. I should rather want not to see it, for it would always remind me that he was gone." "Marguerite!" exclaimed I, "dost thou not know that a neuvaine offered at the Holy Sepulchre is of more efficacy than ten offered at any other altar?" "Will my Damoiselle give me leave to wait till I see it? Of course, if the good God choose to have it so, there is an end of the matter. But I think I would rather be sure. For me, I should like to pray in the Church of the Nativity, to thank Him for coming as a little babe into this weary world: and in the Church of the Ascension, to beg Him to hasten His coming again." "Ah, the Church of the Ascension!" said I. "There are pillars in that church, nearly close to the wall; and the man who can creep between the wall and the pillar has full remission of all his sins." "Is that in the holy Evangel?" asked Marguerite; but I could not tell her.