The eremitess lifted her head; and her voice was again calm.
“I thank you,—no. Let us not speak of ourselves, but of God.”
“Mother, I wish to ask you something,” said Philippa rather doubtfully, for she did not wish to pain her again, yet she deemed her coming question necessary.
“Ask what you will, Lady de Sergeaux.”
There was no sad cadence now in the gentle voice.
“I desire to know—for so only can you really help me—if you know yourself what it is to be unloved.”
Once more Philippa saw the grey veil tremble.
“I know it—well.” But the words were uttered scarcely above a whisper.
“I meant to ask you that at first, and we name upon another subject. But I am satisfied if you know it. And now tell me, how may any be content under such a trial? How may a weary, thirsting heart, come to drink of that water which he that drinketh shall thirst no more? Mother, all my life I have been drinking of many wells, but I never yet came to this Well. ‘Ancor soyf j’ay:’ tell me how I must labour, where I must go, to find that Well whereof the drinker
“‘Jamays soyf n’aura
A l’éternité’?”