"Dear child;" said Lady Judith, "Jesus Christ is the gate of the Garden of God. And He is not a God afar off, but close by. Hast thou asked Him, and doth it seem as though He would not hear? Before thou say so much, make very sure that nothing is stopping the way on thy side. There is nothing but love, and wisdom, and faithfulness, on His." "What can stop the way?" I said. "Some form of self-love," she replied. "It has as many heads as the hydra. Pride, indolence, covetousness, passion—but above all, unbelief: some sort of indulged sin. Thou must empty thine heart, Helena, if Christ is to come in: or else He will have to empty it for thee. And I advise thee not to wait for that, for the process is very painful. Yet I sometimes fear it will have to be the case with thee." "Well!" said I, "there is nobody in there but Guy and Lady Sybil, and a few more a good deal nearer the gate. Does our Lord want me to empty my heart of them?" I thought that, of course, being religious, she would say yes; and then I should respond that I could not do it. But she said— "Dear, the one whom our Lord wants deposed from the throne of thy heart is Hélène de Lusignan." "What, myself?" "Thyself," said Lady Judith, in the same quiet way. I made an excuse to fetch some gold thread, for I did not like that one bit. And when I came back, things were even better than I hoped, for Lady Isabel was in the room; and though Lady Judith will talk of religious matters freely enough when Lady Sybil is present, yet she never does so before her sister. Lady Judith is entirely mistaken. I am quite sure of that. I don’t love me better than any one else! I should think myself perfectly despicable. Amaury does, I believe; but I don’t. No, indeed! She is quite mistaken. I scarcely think I shall be quite so glad as I expected that Lady Judith is going to stay in the Holy City. I do like her, but I don’t like her to say things of that kind. "Marguerite," I said, an hour or two later, "dost thou think I love myself?" "My Damoiselle does not think herself a fool," quietly answered the old woman. "No, of course not," said I; "I know I have brains. How can I help it? But dost thou think I love myself,—better than I love other people?" "We all love either ourselves or the good God." "But we can love both." Marguerite shook her head. "Ha!—no. That would be serving two masters. And the good God Himself says no one can do that." I did not like this much better. So, after I finished my beads, I kissed the crucifix, and I said,—"Sir God, show me whether I love myself." Because,—though I do not like it,—yet, perhaps, if I do, it is best to know it.