"And one other thing, Lawrence, I will say unto thee, of the which I think thou hast need. Be not too careful to spare pain to them thou lovest. It is not the best kind of love. And too often—I would but caution thee, my son, to keep out of the wiles of Satan—what it truly signifieth is that we would fain spare ourselves the pain of seeing it. Methinks thy danger should be on that side, wherefore have a care. God loves us better than that. Aye, and He only knows our hearts, as He only knows those good works which He hath prepared for us to walk in. ’It sufficeth to each day his own evil.’ Pray as much as ever thou wilt; only beware of giving commands to God. And when thou hast prayed, and canst do nothing, then is the time to stand still and see His salvation. Remember, for him that is God’s child, nothing is verily ill that God doth to him." "Nay, but if it break his heart?" "Hearts take more breaking than men think," said Mr. Robesart, quietly. "And He healeth ’all that have need of healing.’ By times, when we think we lack the plaster, we do in very deed want the probe." Lawrence looked up suddenly, with pained eyes. "The probe gives the most pain when a man shall struggle against it. ’Thy will, not mine,’ is the most wholesome medicine for all our ills, my son." "It is a bitter one," said Lawrence, his lip slightly trembling. "Aye, whiles we be swallowing of it. But if thou wouldst make thy physic specially bitter, the way is to look thereon a while aforehand, and feed thy fantasy with the bitterness thereof, and swallow the same grudgingly at last." Lawrence smiled. "Aye me!" said Mr. Robesart, sadly. "For every time that we say to God with our lips, ’_Fiat voluntas tua_’ how many times do we say to Him with our hearts, ’_Fiat voluntas mea!_’ Nay, at times we pass a step further yet, and say, ’Do Thou my will!’ May God save thee and me from that rank treason against our heavenly King! We be all likely to fall therein. And yet His will is for our best welfare—our sanctification here, our bliss hereafter; and our will is but for present ease and passing pleasure. Lord, teach us to do Thy will!" The same evening, a horn sounded without the gate, and the Earl of Ormonde was announced in the hall of Trim Castle. Roger, who was playing chess with one of his knights, rose to meet his kinsman, a man ten years older than himself. "Fair fall your Lordship in your light battle to-night!" said Ormonde, with a rather grim smile and a glance at the chess-board. "If you be of my mind, we shall find somewhat heavier work to-morrow." "Truly, what mean you, fair Cousin?" "The O’Brien is up, my Lord: and that means work for me—and for you, if you will have with me."