"Yes!" I answered, almost astonished at my own boldness. "If the copper carcanet were a love-gift from the dead, what gold could make up to me for that?"
"Ah, my child!" she replied, with a quick change in her tone. It was almost as if she had said,—"I did not understand thee to mean that!"—"For those losses of the heart there is but one remedy. But there is one."
"Costly and far-fetched, methinks!" said I, sighing.
"Costly, ay, in truth," she replied; "but far-fetched? No. It is close to thee, if thou wilt but stretch forth thine hand and grasp it."
"What, holy Mother?"
Her voice sank to a low and very reverent tone.
"'Nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt.'"
"I cannot!" I sobbed.
"No, thou couldst not," she said quietly, "until thou lovest the will of Him that died for thee, better than thou lovest the will of Hélène de Lusignan."
"O holy Mother!" I cried. "I could not set up my will against the good God!"