"My child," said Lady Judith gently, "when some duty is brought to thy remembrance, is there nothing within thee which feels as if it rose up, and said, 'Oh, but I do not want to do that!'—never, Helena?"
"Oh yes! very often," said I.
"That is the flesh," said she. "And 'they that are of Christ the flesh have crucified, with its passions and its lusts.'"
"Oh dear!" I exclaimed, almost involuntarily.
"Very unpleasant, is it not?" said Lady Judith, smiling. "Ah, dear child, the flesh takes long in dying. Crucifixion is a very slow process; and a very painful process. They that are not willing to 'endure hardness' had better not enlist in the army of Jesus Christ."
"Ah, that is what I always thought," said I; "religious persons cannot be very happy. Of course, it would not be right for them; they wait till the next world. And yet—old Marguerite always seems happy. I do not quite understand it."
"Child!" Lady Judith dropped her broidering, and the deep, sweet grey eyes looked earnestly into mine. "What dost thou know of happiness? Helena, following Christ is not a hardship; it is a luxury. The happiness—or rather the mirth—of this world is often incompatible with it; but it is because the one is so far above the other that it extinguishes it, as the light of the sun extinguishes the lamp. Yet who would prefer the lamp before the sunlight? Tell me, Helena, hast thou any wish to go to Heaven?"
"Certainly, holy Mother."
"And what dost thou expect to find there? I should be glad to know."
I could hardly tell where to begin.