"Now, Helena dear, this is what Christ has done for all believers. His death is reckoned to them, and they are thenceforward free and blameless—perfect as He is perfect, ’complete in Him.’ Not in themselves, mind: never! In themselves they are sinners to the last hour of life. But in Him, on account of His atoning death and holy obedience, God’s holy law reckons them perfect as Himself. So that, in one sense, they are perfect for ever: in another sense, they are utterly imperfect so long as they live. ’For by one offering He hath perfected in perpetuity the hallowed ones.’" "But, holy Mother," I asked, "what do you mean by ’in Him’?" "My child," she answered, "I doubt if any but God knows all that is meant by that deep word. And what man knows cannot be told to another,—it can only be felt. But it means light, and life, and joy, Helena: the very light that God is, the life of all the ages, the joy with which no stranger intermeddleth. Only taste it, and see. No draught of sin can be truly sweet to thee again, after one drop of that wine of Heaven." I am quite delighted to find that Messire Tristan de Montluc, who has exasperated me for nearly two years past by playing the broken-hearted lover, has got his heart mended again. I was beginning to entertain a desperate wish that he would take the cowl, for it made me feel a perfect wretch whenever I looked at him: and yet what could I have said to Guy but what I did? I feel indescribably relieved to hear that he is going after his brother to Byzantium, and intensely delighted to find that he is privately engaged to Melisende de Courtenay. I believe she will make him a good wife (which I never could have done): and it is such a comfort to know that he has given over caring about me. It does seem not unlikely that we may have war. There are flying rumours of Saladin’s drawing nearer. May the good God avert it! I believe Amaury would tell me that I was a simpleton, if he heard me say so. The holy Patriarch Heraclius, and the Lord Roger, Master of the Temple, have set forth on a pilgrimage to the shrines of the West. They intend to visit Compostella and Canterbury, amongst others. Count Raymond has been behaving rather better lately—that is, we have not seen quite so much of him. A letter from Alix came to hand last week; but there is nothing of interest in it, except that every one is well. She says her child begins to walk, and can already prattle fluently: which called forth a growl from Amaury, who wants to know why every body’s children thrive but his. It is not true, for little Héloïse is really an engaging child, and has excellent health. "Ah!—but then," says Guy, aside to me, with arched eyebrows, "she is only a girl, poor little good-for-nothing!"