I saw old Marguerite at one end of the gallery, and I am sure she was come to bid me go to bed: but as soon as she caught sight of Guy and me talking in the window, she made believe to be about something else, and slipped away again. She knew I wanted to have my talk out with Guy. The last talk I may ever have with him for years! And now it is all over, and Guy is gone. I wonder how he will get on! Will he do some grand, gallant deed, and be sent for to the Court of the Holy Land, and made a Count or a Duke?—and have all sorts of jewels and riches given him? Perhaps the Queen will put a chaplet of flowers on his head, and all the Princesses will dance with him, and he will be quite a hero. But about that beautiful lady,—I don’t feel at all comfortable about her! I cannot tell whether I should love her or hate her. If she did not almost worship Guy, I am sure I should hate her. And then there is another side to the picture, which I do not like to look at in the least. Instead of all this, Guy may get taken prisoner, and may languish out twenty years in some Saracen dungeon—perhaps, all his life! Oh dear, dear! I don’t know what to do! And the worst of it is, that nothing I can do will make any difference. Why does the good God let there be any Saracens? Marguerite says—and so does Father Eudes, so it must be true—that God can do everything, and that He wants everybody to be a good Christian. Then why does He not make us all good Christians? That is what I want to know. Oh, I cannot, cannot make it out! But then they all say, "Hush, hush!" and "Fie, Damoiselle!" as if I had said something very wicked and shocking. They say the good God will be very angry. Why is the good God angry when we want to know? I wonder why men and women were ever made at all. I wonder why _I_ was made. Did the good God want me for something, that He took the pains to make me? Oh, can nobody tell me why the good God wanted me? He must be good, for He made all so beautiful. And He might have made things ugly. But then, sometimes, He lets such dreadful things happen. Are there not earthquakes and thunderstorms? And why does He let nice people die? Could not—well, I suppose that is wicked. No, it isn’t! I may as well say it as think it.—Would it not have done as well if Alix had died, and my mother had lived? It would have been so much nicer! And what difference would it have made in Heaven—I hope Alix would have gone there—where they have all the angels, and all the saints? Surely they could have spared my mother—better than I can.