"Damoiselle," said she, "every man who follows our Lord must carry his cross. His own cross,—not somebody else’s. And that means, I think, the cross which the good God lays on His shoulders. The blessed Christ Himself did not cut His own cross. But we others, we are very fond of cutting our crosses for ourselves, instead of leaving the good God to lay them on us. And we always cut them of the wrong wood. We like them very light and pretty, with plenty of carving and gilding. But when the good Lord makes the crosses, He puts no carving on them; and He often hews out very rough and heavy ones. At least, He does so for the strong. He makes them light, sometimes, for the weak; but there is no gilding—only the pure gold of His own smile, and that is not in the cross itself, but in the sunlight which He sends upon it. But my Damoiselle will find, when men sort out the crosses, the strong walk away with the light ones, and the rough and heavy fall to the weak. The good Lord knows better than that." "But we don’t all carry crosses, Margot," said I; "only religious persons." Marguerite shook her head decidedly. "Damoiselle, all that learn of the good Lord must bear the cross. He said so. ’If any man serve Me, let him follow Me’—and again, ’If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me.’ Father Eudes read them both. My Damoiselle sees—’_any_ man.’ That must mean all men." Well, I cannot understand it I only feel more puzzled than ever. I am sure it would not make me happier to carry a heavy cross. Yet Lady Judith and Marguerite are happy; I can see they are. Religion and good people seem to be full of contradictions. How is one to understand them? *CHAPTER X.* _*PREPARING FOR THE STRUGGLE*_*.* "He that hath a thousand friends hath not a friend to spare, And he that hath one enemy shall find him every where." I have thought, and thought, about Lady Judith’s question concerning perfection, and, as I expected, I cannot see my way through it at all. And what is more, I do not see how to reconcile it with what she said herself of Sister Eudoxia. So this morning I took the liberty of asking her what she meant. Lady Judith smiled, and replied, "Wert thou puzzled, Helena?" "Yes, holy Mother," said I, "very much." "I am glad of it," she answered. "I wanted to puzzle thee, and make thee think." "I have been thinking a great deal," I said, "but I cannot think my way out of the labyrinth."