I do think, however, that what vexed me most of any thing, was that Amaury—that silly little boy!—should take it into his head to lecture Guy on the way he chose to govern. As if he could know anything about it! Why, he is two whole years younger than Guy. I told him so, feeling really vexed at his impudence; and what should he say but that I was seven years younger than he. I know that, but I am a woman; and women have always more sense than men. At least, I have more sense than Amaury. I should be an idiot if I had not. I have made a discovery to-day which has astonished me. Lady Judith has a whole Bible, and Psalter too, of her own, not written in Latin, but in her own tongue in which she was born,—that is, Greek. And she says that a great part of the Bible—all the holy Evangels, and the writings of Messeigneurs the holy Apostles—were originally written in Greek. I always thought that holy Scripture had been written in Latin. I asked her if Latin were not the language the holy angels spoke, and our Lord, when He was upon earth. She answered, that she did not think we knew what language the holy angels spoke, and she should doubt if it were any tongue spoken on earth: but that the good God, and Messeigneurs the holy Apostles, she had no doubt at all, spoke Greek. It sounds very strange. Lady Isabel has had a violent quarrel with her lord, and goes about with set lips and her head erect, as if she were angry with every one. I almost think Eschine improves upon acquaintance. Not that I find her any cleverer than I expected, but I think she is good-natured, and seems to have no malice in her. If Amaury storms—as he does sometimes—she just lets the whirlwind blow over her, and never gives him a cross word. I could not do that. I suppose that is why I admire it in Eschine. A young nun came this morning to visit Lady Judith—one of her own Order. I could not quite understand their conversation. Sister Eudoxia—for that is her name—struck me as being the holiest religious person I have ever seen. She spoke so beautifully, I thought, about the perfection one could attain to in this life: how one’s whole heart and soul might be so permeated with God, that one might pass through life without committing any deed of sin, or thinking any evil thought. Not, of course, that I could ever attain to such perfection But it sounded very beautiful and holy. I was quite surprised to see how constrained, and even cool, Lady Judith was. It was only yesterday that she assented warmly to old Marguerite’s saying that no one who served God could love any kind of sin. But with Sister Eudoxia—who spoke so much more charmingly on the same subject—she sat almost silent, and when she did speak, it seemed to be rather in dissent than assent. It puzzled me. When Sister Eudoxia was gone, Lady Sybil said— "Oh, what happiness, if one could attain to the perfection of living absolutely without sin!"