I cannot understand it. The old cry comes up to me again,—Oh, if I could know! Why cannot I understand? And then Lady Judith lays her soft hand on my head, and says words which I know come from the holy Evangel,—"’What I do, thou knowest not now.’" Ay, I know not I must not know. I can only stretch forth appealing hands into the darkness, and feel nothing. Not like her and Marguerite. They too stretch forth helpless hands into the darkness, but they find God. It must be a very different thing. Why cannot I do the same? Is He not willing that I should find Him too?—or am I not worthy? I suppose it must be my fault. It seems as if things were always one’s own fault. But I do not think they are any better on that account; especially when you cannot make out where your fault lies. Guy behaves like a saint. He does not see any fault in Count Raymond: I believe he won’t. Lady Sybil, poor darling! looks very grieved; but not one word of complaint can I get her to utter. As to Amaury, when I have quite finished slicing up the Count, if he does not mind, I shall begin with him. What does he say but—"Well, a great deal of it is Guy’s own fault. Why wasn’t he more careful? Surely, if he has any sense, he might expect to be envied and supplanted, when he had climbed to such a height." "If he has any sense!" Pretty well for Messire Amaury! *CHAPTER IX.* _*ELAINE FINDS MORE THAN SHE EXPECTED*_*.* "And when I know not what Thou dost, I’ll wait the light above." —DODDRIDGE. Both Guy and Lady Sybil are in a state of the highest ecstasy, and say that they are abundantly recompensed for all their past disappointments. And this is because they are disappointed just like Amaury, but they bear it in as different a style as possible. I think, if I were they, I should consider I had more right to be troubled of the two, for little Héloïse is a strong child enough, and is growing almost pretty: while dear Lady Sybil’s baby girl is a little delicate thing, that the wind might blow away. Of course I shall love her far better, just because she is Guy’s and Sybil’s; and she crept into the warmest corner of my heart when she showed me her eyes—not Lady Sybil’s gentle grey, but those lovely flashing dark eyes of Guy’s; the most beautiful eyes, I think, that were ever seen. "Marguerite, is not she charming?" I cried. "Ah, the little children always are," said the old woman. (I don’t agree with her—little children can be great teases.) But Marguerite had more to say. "My Damoiselle sees they are yet innocent of actual sin; therefore they are among the best things in God’s world. I may be wrong, but I think the good God must have been the loveliest babe ever seen. How I should have liked to be there!—if the holy Mother would have allowed me to hold Him in my arms!" "Ah, I suppose only the holiest saints would be allowed to touch Him," said I.