We also visited the Church of the Holy Ghost, where is the marble table at which our Lord and the holy Apostles ate the Last Supper, and they received the Holy Sacrament at His hands. There is also a chapel, with an altar whereat our Lord heard mass sung by the angels; and here is kept the vessel wherein our Lord washed the feet of His disciples. All these are on Mount Zion. Marguerite was very much interested in the vessel in which the holy Apostles’ feet were washed: but she wanted to know which of them had put it by and kept it so carefully. This, of course, I could not tell her. Perhaps it was revealed by miracle that this was the vessel. "Ah, well!" she said, turning away at last, with a contented face. "It does not much matter, if only the good God wash our feet." "But that cannot be, Margot!" said I. Lady Judith was with us that day, and she laid her hand on my arm. "Child," said she gently, "’if He wash thee not, thou hast no part with Him.’" "And," said Marguerite, "my Lady will pardon me,—if He wash us, we have part with Him." "Ay," answered Lady Judith. "’Heirs of God, joint-heirs with Christ.’ Thou knowest it, my sister?—thou hast washed? Ay, ’we believers enter into rest.’" I wondered what they were talking about. Lady Judith—of the Cæsars’ purple blood, and born in a palace at Constantinople; and old Marguerite,—a villein, born in a hovel in Poitou,—marvel to relate! they understood each other perfectly. They have seemed quite friendly ever since. It can hardly be because they are both old. There must be some mystery. I do not understand it at all. Another day, we went to the Church of the Ascension, which is on the summit of Mount Olivet. This also has an open roof. When our Lord ascended, He left the impression of His feet in the dust; and though palmers are constantly carrying the holy dust away by basketsful, yet the impression never changes. This seemed to me so wonderful that I told Marguerite, expecting that it would very much astonish her. But she did not seem to think much about it. Her mind was full of something else. "Ah, my Damoiselle," she said, "they did well that built this church, and put no roof on it. For He is not here; He is gone up. And He will come again. Thank God! He will come again. ’This same Jesus’—the same that wore the crown of thorns, and endured the agony of the cross,—the same that said ’Weep not’ to the bereaved mother, and ’Go in peace’ to the woman that was a sinner—the very same, Himself, and none other. I marvel if it will be just here! I would like to live and die here, if it were." "O Margot!" said I, laughing, "thou dost not fancy it will be while thou art alive?"