Chapter IV: A New Life

WHEN we reached the Strand, we found the rest of our escort waiting for us before a handsome house which I had often seen in my walks. There were two or three stout fellows well-armed, and a sober, somewhat vinegar-faced man, dressed like a steward or something of that sort. Two other men led palfreys caparisoned for women's use. As we drew near and joined the group, the door opened and two ladies were led forth. They were closely veiled, yet I could see that one was young and handsome. As she was put upon her horse, she raised her veil for a moment and looked about with a wild, despairing glance, like that of some small, helpless, trapped animal, seeking a way of escape. In a moment, the veil was dropped again, the other lady mounted her horse, and the whole cavalcade set forward as briskly as the state of the road would permit.

The fresh, sharp, autumn air; the quick movement, and the change of scene, roused me a little from the heavy stupor of grief and rage—I know not what else to call it—which had oppressed me, and I began to look about me. Father Austin seemed to note the change, and began gently to point out different objects of interest. He showed me the house where he himself was born and brought up—a comfortable old red brick hall, looking like the very home of peace and plenty in its ancient elm and nut trees, and began to tell me little tales of his boyhood, of his mother and sisters and his pet rabbits.

At first I was conscious of nothing but a wish to be let alone, but almost insensibly I began to listen, to be interested, and asked little questions. The sharp, heavy distress was at my heart still, but as one suffering from the pain of a wound is yet willing to be a little diverted from his misery, albeit the pain is not lessened thereby, so I was not sorry to listen to the kind father's tale. Presently we passed a building shut in by high walls, like a convent, and as the road wound close by the gate, we could hear within sounds of somewhat unbridled mirth and laughter.

"What house is that?" asked the steward, who rode close by us.

"It was the house of Our Lord once," said the father, dryly. "Now it belongs to Master Cromwell."

The man bit his lip as if he had received some sort of check, and fell back a little. The house was, in fact, one of the many small convents which had fallen during the past few years.

We stopped at a way-side inn for some refreshment, and one of the men brought me a glass of small ale, but I could not take it, and begged for a drink of pure water instead. My head ached, and I felt parched with thirst. The priest asked the buxom hostess who brought me the water, if there were any news.

"Nothing your reverence, save that the foxes have caught and carried off two or three lambs, but 'tis thought their den will be broken up before long."

I saw two or three of the men who were standing about wink at each other as if there were some jest concealed under the woman's words. Father Austin answered her gently:

"There are many sorts of foxes, and other beasts also, which spoil the flocks, and the worst of all, are wolves which come in sheep's clothing: remember that, my daughter."

Young and distraught as I was, I could not but notice the difference between the treatment of the priest here, and that which he would have received in our neighborhood at Peckham Hall. There, whenever the abbot or Father Barnaby rode abroad, all bowed before them, as if they had been the pope himself, and even our own old fat, sleepy Sir John, was greeted with bared heads; but here, such as we met contented themselves with a careless lifting of hat or cap for a moment, and many gave Father Austin no greeting at all. Others on the contrary were very forward in craving his blessing, even kissing the hem of his robe or the furniture of his mule.

The two ladies rode along close together, but never, that I could see, exchanging a word. However, the elder did speak to the younger once or twice, but she got no answer save an impatient shake of the head. It was now drawing toward evening, and I well remember how the level rays of the setting sun shone through the orchards, making the ripening apples glow like balls of gold and fire among the dusky leaves. The sight recalled so clearly to my mind the orchards of my native West Country, that when we ascended a little rising ground, and the priest remarked that we should soon see home, I looked out, expecting for a moment to behold the gray battlements of Peckham Hall. But no doubt my head was bewildered even then by the fever which was stealing over me.

"There, daughters, that is your future home," said Father Austin, pointing downward, when we had attained the top of the little eminence.

The younger lady uttered an exclamation of some sort, and turned her horse as though she would have fled, but her sister and the steward both at once laid their hands upon her bridle rein, and she made no further move. I roused myself from the sort of stupor that was bewildering me, and looked. I saw a large garden and orchard, surrounded by a high stone wall, having an embattled gateway. In the midst was a pile of old red brick buildings and a church. The little river Darent ran close by, and a stream seemed to be diverted from it to water the convent grounds; I could see the water sparkling in the sun. It was, I suppose, the hour of recreation; for various black-veiled and white-veiled figures were walking in the orchard and garden, while even at this distance, the fitful sound of music reached our ears. It was indeed a sweet and peaceful scene.

"That is Sister Cecilia practicing in the church! We have the best pair of organs in all the country," said Father Austin, with simple pride; "there is nothing like them in all London."

We now put our horses to a brisk pace, and passing through the gateway I have spoken of, we entered a sort of paved outer court, where the men dismounted, and we women folk were also taken from our horses. We were led through an inner gate which opened upon a long paved walk leading up through the orchard and garden to the house. I was growing more and more confused; but I remember well all the sisters pausing to look at us, as was but natural, poor things, and my feeling an unreasoning anger against them for so doing. I have also a vivid impression of some bright flowers growing by the path. Two or three of the dark-robed group now came forward to meet us.

"Here are our new daughters," said the priest, "and tired enough they are, poor things. I fear the child is not well."

"Holy Virgin! I trust she hath not brought the sickness among us," said one of the number, shrinking back.

"I dare say she is only weary with her journey," said a kind voice, and one of the ladies took my hand to lead me into the house. "Come with me, my child, and we will find some supper and a bed for these tired little bones."

I am conscious of hearing the words, but they sounded far and strange, as talk does in the very early morning, when one is half-asleep. I heard also an exclamation of surprise and pity, and then my senses failed me. The next I knew, I found myself being undressed and put into bed, while my teeth chattered and every limb was shaking under the influence of a strong ague.

From that time, for several weeks, my recollections are mostly a blank. I remember begging for water, water, and loathing the apple-tea and gruel they brought me instead. I remember seeing people about me and hearing voices, but it is all dim and dreamlike. At last, one day, I woke and saw Father Austin standing by my bed, with a lady so exactly like him, that if they had changed clothes no one would have known which was which.

"Water!" I gasped. It was always my first word on waking.

"Do you think I might give her a little?" asked the lady. "She does crave it so, poor little thing."

"Yes, give her what she wants; it will make no difference," said the priest, sadly.

He went away, and the lady brought me a small cup of cool, fresh water. I drained every drop and begged for more.

"You shall have more by and by, if this does not hurt you," said the lady. "Be a good child."

I dropped again into a doze. When I waked, I was alone, and the jug, from which my nurse had poured the water, stood on a little table near by. An overmastering desire took possession of me. I crept out of bed, and, steadying myself by the wall, I reached the jug, and though I could hardly lift it so as to get at its contents, I drained every drop. There must have been nearly a quart. Then getting back into bed, I fell asleep and slept soundly. I woke from a dream of my home before I went to Peckham Hall, and found that it was dark and the lady I had seen before was standing by me with a light in her hand. She bent down and put her hand on my forehead.

"The saints be praised, here is a blessed change," said she. "The fever is wholly gone, and your skin is cool and moist. Do you feel better?"

I made a motion of assent. Now that the fever had left me, I was as weak as an infant.

"Well, well. Perhaps the water did you good, after all. Do you want more?"

I nodded. She took up the jug, and seemed surprised to find it empty, but asked no questions, and gave it to an attendant outside, who presently returned, and I had another delightful drink, but I was not so thirsty as before.

"Do you think you could eat something, my child?" asked my new friend.

I assented eagerly, for I had begun to feel decidedly hungry. She again gave some orders to the person outside, who, by and by, brought I know not what delicate preparation of milk. I took all that was given me, and would gladly have had more.

From that hour my recovery was rapid, and I was soon able to walk about the room, which was a large one with several beds, and was, indeed, the infirmary for the pupils. Then I was allowed to walk in the gallery, and so, by degrees, I took my place in the family, and began to understand somewhat of its constitution and politics.

Dartford nunnery was a place of no little consequence in my time, having some twenty professed nuns besides the prioress and other needful officers, such as sacristan, mother assistant and mistress of novices. It was a wealthy foundation, owning, besides its fair home domain, other wide fields and orchards which brought in a good revenue. Most, if not all of the sisters were ladies of family and breeding.

The house had a good reputation for sanctity, and certainly there were no scandals in my time, or at least so I think, and I was always sufficiently sharp-sighted.

When I was able to walk about and see my new home, which was not till cold weather, I had to confess that it was a fair one. The garden was very large and contained many fine fruit trees, apples, plums, and cherries, besides great grape vines and apricots, trained in curious fashion against the south wall.

The house had been founded in 1371, and it was said, though I doubt it, that a part of the first fabric was still standing in my time. Any how some of the building was very old, and it had been added to as convenience dictated, till there was no regularity to it; yet the material being the same throughout, and the walls much overgrown with ivy, there subsisted a certain harmony in the parts which was pleasing to the eye.

The church was a fine one and contained some valuable relics, such as Mary Magdalene's girdle—she must have had a good many girdles in her time—a bottle containing some smoke from the Virgin's fire, and a glass of St. Anne's tears, * with others which I don't now remember, all inclosed in rich reliquaries and boxes, or highly ornamented shrines. They were exposed in the church on feast days for the adoration of the faithful.

* All these relics are authentic, and may be found in Leighton's list
contained in his letters.

But the faithful were not so much disposed to adore as in times past. The leaven of incredulity was spreading among the poor, and the new Learning, as it was called, among the rich. It was understood that the king himself had his doubts about such matters; he was at drawn daggers with the pope about his divorce; the great cardinal was in disgrace and likely to lose all his preferments, and nobody knew what was likely to come next.

But we young ones, shut in by the gray stone walls, were happily unconscious of the storms that raged without. Children are easily reconciled to any change that is not greatly for the worse, and I soon became as much at home as if I had always lived here. I must needs say that every one was kind to me, especially so when I was recovering.

I used to have terrible fits of homesickness, which were not lessened by the anger which still dwelt in my heart against my uncle. These usually ended in a fit of crying and that in a chill, so it is no wonder that Mother Joanna (that was the name of the Mistress of the Novices) had a dread of them. So, at the last, she took to setting me tasks and work, and finding that I had a talent for music, she put Sister Cicely upon giving me lessons upon the lute and in singing, which lessons have since been of great use to me.

At my first recovery from my sickness, as I have said, my mind was almost a blank; but by and by my memory came back and I began to recollect and compare things, and to ask questions. Mother Joanna liked me about her when she was busy. Her eyesight was not as good as it had been, and she found it convenient to have me thread her needles when she was sewing, and do other little offices for her. One day, she was preparing some work for the children (for we had a day-school in a little house near the gate, where the girls from the village learned to sew and spin and to say their prayers); one day, I say, when we were thus engaged, I ventured to ask:

"Dear mother, did my uncle come to see me when I was sick?"

"No, child, your uncle is gone abroad, as I understand, to Holland, about some matters of business—but your aunt sent to inquire for you twice."

"Who came?" I inquired.

"How do I know, child! You ask too many questions. It was an elderly serving man with a scar on his face."

"Joseph Saunders," I said. "Do you know if my aunt and cousins were well?"

"Yes, they are all well. I asked because I thought you would like to know."

"Dear mother, you are very kind."

"Well, I mean to be kind, and so I am going to talk plainly to you, child. You must give up all notion of going back to your uncle's house, for that will never be. My Lady Peckham has given you to this house—she having absolute control of you since Sir Edward's death—"

"Is Sir Edward dead?" I asked, in dismay.

"Yes, he died in Scotland. There, don't cry, my dear; I thought you knew it, or I would not have told you so suddenly. I know it is natural for you to grieve for him, but we must curb even natural affections when they stand in the way of our duty."

But I could not help crying. Sir Edward had been uniformly kind to me, and I loved him dearly. The news of his death was a dreadful shock, and the end of it was, that I had another ague and was sick for several days.

When I got able to be about again, I was sent for to the prioress's parlor. I had hitherto seen this lady, only at an awful distance, and, so far as I know, she had never spoken to me. She was a very great lady being some way, I know not how, akin to Bishop Gardner.

By the rule of our constitution, we were to elect a prioress every three years, but there was nothing to hinder the same person from being elected again and again, and Mother Paulina was such a Queen Log that I imagine nobody cared to get rid of her. She was an indolent, easy-going body, caring, I do think, more for her own ease and comfort than any thing else, and very little troubled as to how matters went in the house, so long as they did not come in her way. Like many such persons, however, she now and then took a fit of activity and authority, when she would go about the house interfering in every body's business whether she knew any thing about the matter in hand or not, giving contradictory orders and setting things generally at sixes and sevens. This happily accomplished, and her conscience discharged, she would relapse into her great chair and her indolence again, and leave matters to settle as they might.

One of these fits was on her just now. She had been out in the garden in the morning, scolding the gardener about the management of the winter celery and the training of the apricots, of which she knew as much as she did of Hebrew. I saw her two attendant sisters fairly laughing behind her back.

As for the gardener, he was a sober old Scotsman, who had come to this country in the train of some of the banished Scots lords, and liked it too well to leave it. He understood his business, and his mistress, too. He would stand, cap in hand, in an attitude of the deepest humility, listening to his lady's lectures and throwing in a word now and then, as—

"Na doot, madam! Ye'll hae the right o't. I would say so!"

Then he would go on his own course, precisely as if she had not spoken, and she, having said her say without contradiction, would imagine she had had her own way. (It is not a bad way to deal with unreasonable people, as I have learned by experience.)

I found the lady sitting in her great chair, beside a table on which was a crucifix of gold and ivory, a vase for holy water, and a box which I supposed to contain some holy relic. A handsome rug was before her chair, and she rested her feet on an embroidered hassock. According to the custom of the house, two sisters stood behind her. The younger sisters took this duty in rotation.

"So!" said she, when I had made my obeisance. "You are the child who was sent hither by my Lady Peckham."

This in a severe tone, as if I had been much to blame for being such a child.

"And why did not you come hither at once, instead of stopping four months in London, and putting me to all that trouble of looking over poor Sister Benedict's things, and finding my lady's letter."

To which I could only answer that I did not know. As if a little chit like myself would have any hand in her own disposal.

"Well, now you are here, you must be content. Mother Joanna says you are homesick and make yourself ill by crying. That must be stopped. If I hear any more of it, I will try what virtue is in a birch twig to cure ague. I am afraid you are a naughty child, or your uncle would not have been in such a hurry to get rid of you."

How easy it is for idle or careless hands to gall a sore wound. Her words were like a stab to me, but I set my teeth and clenched my hands and made no sign.

"But now you must understand, once for all, that I will have no more crying or homesickness!" pursued the lady, who was like a stone that once set a-going down hill rolls on by its own weight.

"You are in a good home and a holy house, where you may grow up without danger of being infected by the heresies, which, as we hear, are so rife in London. Your good mistress, Lady Peckham, will give you a dowry when you are professed, and some time you may come to be prioress, and sit in this chair; who knows?" concluded the lady, relapsing into an easy talking tone, having, I suppose, sustained her dignity as long as was convenient. "So now be a good child, and here is a piece of candied angelica for you!" she added, taking the cover from what I had taken for a reliquary, "and pray don't let us have any more crying."

I took the sweetmeat with a courtesy, and afterward gave it to one of the lay sisters, having no great fondness for such things.

"And how did you leave my Lady Peckham?" pursued the prioress; then, without waiting for an answer: "We were girls at school together, though she was older than I—oh, yes, quite a good deal older, I should say. Let me see, she married twice, I think. What was her first husband's name?"

"Walter Corbet, madam?" I managed to say.

I was feeling very queer by that time, being weak and unused to standing so long. The prioress was pursuing her catechism, when I saw the two attendant sisters look at each other, and then one of them bent down as if to whisper in the lady's ear. That was the last I did see or know till I woke, as it were, to find myself on the floor, with one of the sisters bathing my face with some strong waters, and the prioress fussing about, wringing her hands and calling on all the saints in the calendar. I felt very dreamy and strange, and, I fancy, lost myself again, for the next thing I heard was Mother Joanna's voice, speaking in the tone which showed she was displeased.

"You kept her standing too long, that is all. Nobody recovering from a fever should be kept standing."

"You don't think she will die, do you, mother?" asked one of the sisters, I do believe out of sheer mischief.

"Holy Virgin! You don't think so?" cried the prioress. "Holy Saint Joseph! What shall I do? Send for Father Austin, somebody, quick! Bring her the holy Magdalene's girdle, or the thumb of Saint Bartholomew. Holy Magdalene! I will vow—"

"Reverend mother, please do be quiet!" interposed Mother Joanna, with very little ceremony. "The child is not dying, if she be not scared to death by all this noise. Sister Priscilla, go and see that her bed is ready. Come, Loveday," in her crisp, kindly tone, "rouse yourself, child. Why, that is well!" As I opened my eyes—"There, don't try to sit up, but take what the sister is giving you, and we will soon have you better. Open the casement a moment, Sister Anne; the room is stifling."

"Really, sister!" said the prioress, in an injured tone, "I think you should remember that you are in my apartment, before you take such a liberty. The child will do well enough, I dare say. It is more than half pretense to get herself noticed, and I believe might be whipped out of her," she pursued, for having a little gotten over her fright, she was beginning to be angry with the cause of it.

Mother Joanna treated the reproof and the suggestion with equally little ceremony, and gathering me up in her strong arms, she bore me off to my bed in the dormitory, and went to bring me some soup. I was quite myself in a few hours, and from that time, my health improved so that I was soon as well as I had ever been in my life. Every one was kind to me, as I have said. I went to work with great zeal at my lessons in music and needlework, both of which I loved.

One day, I was holding some silk for Sister Denys. She was the novice who had entered the house at the same time as myself, and had taken the white veil while I was ill. She was very young, and, but for her unvarying expression of listless sadness, would have been very pretty; but she moved more like a machine, than a living creature, never spoke if she could help it, and faded day by day, like a waning moon. I more than once saw Mother Joanna shake her head sadly as she looked at the poor thing.

Well, as I said, I was holding some thread for her, when somehow, I don't know how it happened, I made use of a Latin phrase. I saw that she started, and her eyes brightened.

"Do you know Latin, child—I mean, so as to understand it?"

I was as much surprised as if the image of Mary Magdalene in the chapel had spoken to me, but I made haste to answer—

"Yes, Sister Denys; I have learned it for two or three years. And I have read through the 'Orbis Sensualium Pietus;' * and some of Cornelius Nepos, and I have read a part of St. Matthew his Gospel in the Vulgate—" (so I had, with my uncle). "I wish I had lessons here," I added, regretfully. "I have forgot so much since I had the fever, and I love my Latin, because I used to read it with Walter."

* I am not sure that I have not antedated this wonderful schoolbook.

"Who was Walter—your brother?"

"No, sister; my cousin," and then, in answer to her questions, I began, nothing loth, to tell her of my home in Somersetshire.

Presently she dropped the silk, and I saw she was weeping bitterly.

"Never mind, little maiden—you have done me good," she said at last, as I stood by her side, dismayed at her sorrow, yet feeling by instinct that it was better to let her have her cry out, without calling any one. She made a great effort to check her sobs, and presently, kissing me, she added:

"I know Latin, and I will teach you, if the mother is willing."

"I am sure she will be willing!" I answered. "She said herself it was a pity I should lose what I had gained."

And the mother passing at the moment, I preferred my petition to her. I think she was unfeignedly pleased to see poor Sister Denys interested in any thing. She did not go through the usual form of referring to the prioress, as indeed, she was not obliged to do, she having the whole care of the novices and pupils, but bade me fetch my books, which had been sent me from London, and take a lesson on the spot.

For a while these lessons went on very prosperously. Sister Denys was a good Latin scholar, and finding that I was diligent, reasonably quick, and liked learning for its own sake, she began also to teach me French. All that winter I studied hard, and between Sister Denys, Sister Cicely, with her music lessons, and Sister Theresa, with her embroidery, I had my hands full. I did no more work than was good for me, and had plenty of play and sleep, and, on the whole, I was very well content with my new home, though I used, now and then, to have fits of longing after my Aunt Joyce and my cousins.

One day in spring, I was called to the parlor. Supposing I was wanted to do some errand—I was errand-boy, or rather girl, for the establishment—I went carelessly enough. The prioress was there, with her attendant sisters and mother assistant, and as I came forward to the wide grating that divided the room, I found myself face to face with my aunt and cousins.

What a meeting it was! Aunt Joyce had grown older and looked careworn, and the twins were a head taller, but that was all the change. The mother assistant whispered to the prioress, who assented.

"There, you may go outside the grating and speak to your aunt and cousins, child!" said she. "You are not professed; so it can do no harm."

In another minute I was in my aunt's arms, smothered with kisses, and turning from one to the other in a very bewilderment of joy. I could not help hoping for a moment that they had come to take me away, but my hopes were quickly dashed.

They had come on another errand, namely, to bid me a long farewell. My uncle had been back and forth between London and Antwerp several times, but now he had removed his business wholly to that city, and determined to settle there for the rest of his life. There was a great deal of commerce between Antwerp and London at that time, and more things were brought over in the way of merchandise than passed the customs.

Again the mother assistant whispered the prioress, and then addressed herself to me.

"Loveday, you may take your aunt and cousins to see the church and the garden and orchard. I am sure they will take no undue advantage."

"Surely not, reverend mother!" said my aunt, with a deep reverence. "It will be a great pleasure to me to see my niece's future home. Joseph Saunders is waiting without with a present for the house, and I have ventured to take the liberty of bringing down our cat, if the ladies are fond of such pets. He is a fine creature and somewhat uncommon."

"I saw in a moment that mother assistant was gratified. She loved pet animals, and indeed, that was about the only indulgence she ever permitted herself.

"A cat—oh, yes. Mother assistant will be delighted, I am sure!" said the prioress, rather peevishly. "She loves a cat better than a Christian, any day."

"And my nephew hath sent a case or two of foreign sweetmeats and some Basle gingerbread," * continued my aunt, without noticing this not very dignified outburst—"with some loaves of sugar and a packet of spices. He hopes my lady prioress will condescend to accept them as a token of gratitude for her kindness to his niece."

"Certainly—certainly, and with thanks!" answered the prioress, with alacrity. "Tell him, he shall have our prayers for his journey. I am sure he cannot be inclined to heresy as they say, or he would never send such nice presents to our house."

* Basle then, as now, was famous for its gingerbread, which is,
in fact, a rich and spicy kind of iced plum cake—made to keep long.

"There, go child, and show your cousins the garden and the orchard!" said the mother assistant, interposing rather more hastily than was consistent with good discipline. "I will come presently and make acquaintance with this wonderful cat."

I was not slow in availing myself of the permission.

As I stopped to shut the door, whereof the lock was out of order, I heard the prioress say, in an aggrieved tone, "Really, sister—" and I knew she was, as usual, asserting her dignity, and defending her authority, which took a good deal of defending, certainly.

I drew my aunt and cousins out to the gate, and we quickly released Turk from his imprisonment. He was hugely indignant at first. But finding himself among friends, and being invited to partake of refreshment, he very soon smoothed his ruffled plumes, and before long was entirely at home.

"We could not well take him with us, and my uncle thought you would like to have him," said my aunt. "But let us look at you, child. How well you look, and how you have grown. You are happy here, are you not?"

"Yes, aunt!" said I, indifferently. "If I cannot be with you and my cousins, I might as well be here. They are all kind. But oh, aunt, why does my uncle go away so far—and to a strange country, too?"

"I cannot tell you, dear child. He has good reasons, or he would never do so. You may guess it is hard, in my old age, to be transplanted to a foreign soil, and have to learn new ways and new tongues; but God knows best. His will be done."

"There are a great many English in Antwerp, my father says!" observed Katherine.

"Yes, that is true, and some that we know—at least, that your father knows."

"And my father says his house is a fine one—even finer than ours in London," said Avice; "but I know I shall never like it as well."

"But tell me all about it!" said I. "Is Sambo going?"

"Yes, and Anne the launder, and Joseph Saunders, but no one else. Master Davis, the silk mercer, hath hired our house, and he loves flowers as well as my father, so the garden will be cared for."

"I should not think Joseph would go—he is so old!"

"He hath been there with my nephew and knows the ways and the language; so he will be a help in getting settled!" said Aunt Joyce, who seemed to feel the change far more than the girls, as was indeed natural. "But, after all, life is short, and Paradise is as near to Antwerp as to London. That is the great comfort. But Loveday, now that we are alone together, I must give you your uncle's charge and his letter."

The letter was short, but earnest. My uncle bade me make myself contented so far as I could, but he charged me to remember that I was not to be professed till I was twenty-one.

"Should any thing happen to make you need a home—as is not impossible, if I read the signs of the times aright," so the letter proceeded, "do you go to my old friend, Master Davis, the silk mercer, who will always know where I am, and how to send to me. His wife is a good woman, and they will gladly give you a home."

My uncle concluded by once more asking my forgiveness
for his hasty action, and most solemnly gave me his blessing.

My aunt bade me give her back the letter, and I did so, however reluctantly, knowing that it would not be well to have it found with me. In a convent, nothing is one's own, and one is all the time watched.

When we had seen the garden and orchard, the church and such other parts of the domain as it was proper to show to strangers, we were called into the refectory where an elegant little repast was provided, of which I was allowed to partake with them. The time for parting came all too soon, for the ride to town was not a short one, and though the days were now at the longest, the party could not more than reach home before dark.

I will not dwell on that sorrowful parting. Mother Joanna led me away, and when I had wept awhile, she began to quiet me. She said what was true, that I had been greatly indulged in being allowed such free intercourse with my friends, and that I must show my gratitude by striving to restrain my grief so as not to make myself ill. She said a good deal, too, in her sweet, gentle way, of submitting our wills to the will of Heaven, because that will is sure to be best for us, since our heavenly Father seeing the end from the beginning, and having, as it were, our whole lives spread out before him, can judge far better than we can. (I began to observe, about this time, that while the prioress and the other ladies invoked saints by the gross on all occasions, the mother assistant and Mother Joanna rarely or never did so.) The dear mother understood me well. I saw the reasonableness of what she urged, and made a great effort to control my feelings, and though my pillow was wet with tears for that, and more than one night afterward, I took care that my grief should be troublesome to no one.

It was not long after my aunt's visit, that another friend was taken, who proved a great loss to me, and that was Sister Denys. She had gradually improved in health, and I believe the interest she took in my lessons was a great benefit to her; but I do not think she became a whit more reconciled to her way of life. She used to remind me of a vixen * Walter had, which, though tame enough to know and love her keeper, and eat out of his hand, did yet never give up trying to escape from her captivity. I remember old Ralph saying that if the creature did once really give up the hope of getting away, she would die.

* All my readers may not know that Vixen is the proper name of a
female fox.

Sister Denys was like that vixen, I think—the hope of escape kept her alive. About this time, she began greatly to frequent a little chapel of our patron saint built in our orchard, and more than once I had seen her talking with an old man, a great, awkward, shambling creature with one eye, whom old Adam, our Scotch gardener, had hired to assist him. I wondered what she wanted with him, but I had learned by that time enough of convent politics to see much and say nothing.

One fine morning, Sister Denys and the old lame gardener were both missing, and when I ventured to ask what had become of them, I was told that Sister Denys had gone to another house to be professed, and that the gardener had been dismissed. Young as I was, a kind of inkling of the truth came over me, but I did not know the whole of it till long and long after that time. Of course, there was not a word of truth in the story, but almost any thing is allowable to save scandal, as the phrase is, and a pretty big fib told in the interest of the church is, at worst, a venial sin.