I FOUND the original of this book (1710) in my father's library. Remembering well, when I was a child, how my dear and honored mother used to value it, and how she used sometimes to read to us young ones little bits therefrom, I was led to peruse it myself; and since that time I have amused my leisure hours by making a fair copy of the chronicle (for such it really is) as a present to my dear child and charge, the Lady Lucy Stanton.

Amy Rosamond Stanton, spoken of at the end of the book, was my grandmother, my father's mother. She was in many respects a peculiar person, very beautiful and accomplished, but uncommonly retiring and serious in her tastes, given to study and solitary meditation, specially after the death of her husband. My mother ever loved her as an own mother, and we have still her portrait. It represents a beautiful woman indeed, but so absolutely fair and colorless as to seem almost unreal.

There is a tradition in the family that this wonderful fairness is derived from a certain personage called "The Fair Dame of Stanton," whom one of the Lords of Stanton married in foreign parts. The story goes that this fair dame was one of those strange creatures, neither quite spiritual nor yet wholly human, a kind of Melusina or Tiphane Le Fee, and that she vanished at last in some strange fashion, leaving two children. The common people, and some who should be above such notions, believe that the Fair Dame doth sometimes return in the person of one of her descendants, and that such a return always bodes woe to the family. But this is all nonsense. So much is true that the lady came from foreign parts, and that she was possessed of this curious fair beauty, which now and then reappears in the person of some descendant of hers, as in the case of my grandame. She had some peculiarities of religious belief, probably inherited from her Albigensian ancestors, and 'tis certain that she possessed a copy of Holy Scripture as done into English by Wickliffe. This book was found concealed in the apartment known as the Fair Dame's bower, and is still preserved in our library.

My mother also wrote a chronicle of her young days, which is one of my most precious possessions. I would fain have my Lucy do the same, but she is a true Stanton, and cares little for books, being a born housewife. Her father has married a second time, and has a son, so that Lucy is no longer the sole hope of the race. She gets on well with her stepmother, who is an amiable young lady, not so many years her senior as I could wish, but still she loves best to pass her time here with me, in this home of my youth, which my Lord has most kindly fitted up and given me for my life. I have a widowed daughter, who lives with me, and plenty of grandchildren to visit me, so that I am never lonely. But I meant not to write the history of my own life, but only to give an account of this book.

DEBORAH CORBET.

LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK.

Edmund Andrews, for sea fisshe . . . . . . . £0. ivs. xd.
John Earle, for spice. . . . . . . . . . . . ixs. ixd.
Thomas Smith, dried ling . . . . . . . . . . vs. iiiid.
Mistress Ashe, a webbe of white hollands . . xivs.
John Earle, spices, dates and almond . . . . £0. is. xd.
Mistress Ashe, needles, silk and thread. . . viiis.
Mistress Ashe, a webbe of fine diaper. . . . xls. ixd.

[CHAPTER I.]

I SUPPOSE I had better begin by telling how I came by this book, though that is not the beginning either, but perhaps it will do as well as any other to start from. Dear Mother says I am to write a chronicle of my life, as it seems some ladies of our family have done before me. So here I begin by first putting the date:

St. Swithin's Day, in the year of Grace, 1529.

Dear Mother Superior was in the library this morning, looking at the work I have been helping Sister Gertrude to finish, of putting the books in order, and writing out a fair list of them. Sister Gertrude cannot write on account of her eyes, and she does not know Latin, and as I do, and can write a fair hand, I was able to help her, which pleased us both well.

[I do shrewdly suspect there was another hindrance more vital than the dear Sister's eyes, but I would not have hinted such a thing for the world. If she did not know writing, she knew many another thing better worth knowing.] *

Well, Mother Superior did commend our diligence, and gave Sister Gertrude much praise, which she in turn transferred to me, at which Sister Catherine, who must be on hand as usual, exclaimed:

"What holy humility Sister Gertrude shows!"

"Nay, I thought not of humility, but only of justice, and giving the child her due," answered Sister Gertrude.

"I fear 'twill be long before our dear young Rosamond emulates your example," continued Sister Catherine, as if Sister Gertrude had not spoken. "I fear her gifts are but a snare to her in that respect. Dear Rosamond, remember nothing was so dear to St. Frances as humility."

* The sentences in brackets were writ on the margin of Lady Rosamond's book, but in transcribing I have put them in the body of the work. Most of them seem to have been added at a later date.—D. C.

"Sister Catherine, is not your charge in the wardrobe at this hour?" asked Mother Superior (methought somewhat dryly). Sister Catherine retired without a word, but I can't say she looked very humble. If she were not a devoted religious, I should say she looked ready to bite.

"You have made a good piece of work between you, my children," said Mother; "and now we are in order, we must keep in order. 'Tis not often that a lady's house possesses so many books as ours, and we have, I fear, hardly prized them as we ought. When Rosamond comes to be abbess, she will make our poor house a seminary of learning."

"What have you got there, child?"

"'Tis a great book of blank paper, dear Mother," said I, showing this book to her. "It has been begun as an accompt, as I think, and then as a receipt, but it is mostly empty."

"And you would like to fill it?" said Mother, smiling: "Well, well, you have been a good maid, and deserve a reward. You shall have the book, and write a chronicle of your life therein, as did your great grandame of hers. You are a true Corbet, and 'Corbys will have quills,' is an old saying of your house."

I was well pleased, for I do love to write; but what can I say about my own life, only the little things which happen every day, and much the same to every one. To be sure, in the lives of saints, as well as in the history books, I do love best to read about the common things, even such as what they ate, and how they slept, and so on. It seems to bring them nearer to one. Not that I shall ever be a saint, I am sure. Sister Catherine was right there. I should be more likely to make a good housewife. Sometimes I fear I have no vocation at all, though I have, as it were, grown up with a veil on my face. Richard Stanton used to say I should never make a nun.

Now I am going to begin my life. My name is Rosamond Corbet, and I was born in Devonshire. My father is a worshipful knight, Stephen Corbet by name, and my mother Alice Stanton, a niece of my Lord Stanton, at the great house. The Corbets are the elder family, having lived at Fresh Water long before the Stantons, who only came in with the Conqueror. The name used to be writ Corby, and the common folk call it so to this day. The corby, or hooded crow, is the cognizance of our house, and this bird, commonly of evil omen, is said to be lucky to our race. 'Tis not a nice bird, and I could wish we had an eagle or a falcon to our crests; but after all they are alike birds of prey. They say we are not Saxon, but British in descent, and that is how we come by our black hair and eyes. The Stantons, who should, methinks, be dark, are all fair.

I was the youngest of my family. My mother was a great friend of the Lady Margaret Vernon, our dear Mother Superior. It was thought at one time she had herself a strong vocation, but she met with Sir Stephen, and there was an end of that. So to make amends, I suppose, she promised her second girl to this house, or her first, if she had but one. So I, being the second maid, the lot fell on me, and I have spent at least half my time here since I was five years old. I like it well enough too, though I confess I am now and then glad to get back home and run about the woods' and sands, and play with the babes in the cottages. I do love children, specially young children. I think my vocation will be to teaching, or else to the pantry and pastry-room. Once I told Sister Gertrude so, and she said it reminded her of her younger brother, who when asked what he would do when he was grown up, answered that he would be a bishop, or else a fisherman, like old Will Lee.

Once I stayed at home six years. It was then I learned to write and to construe Latin, from my brother's tutor, Master Ellenwood. I was always a great pet of his, and when he offered to teach me Latin, my father made no objection, saying that a little learning would do me no harm, and might sometime stand me in good stead.

That was a happy time. We three young ones and Dick Stanton studied together all the morning, and played together all the afternoon, save for the two hours or so of needlework, and the like, which my mother exacted from us girls. I may say without vanity that brother Henry and I were the best scholars. Alice was passable, but poor Dick was always in disgrace. In all the manly exercises, such as riding the great horse, shooting with both long and cross-bow, sword play, and so on, however, Dick was far beyond any of the other lads. So he was in managing a horse, a dog, or a hawk, and 'twas wonderful how all dumb creatures loved him. Now he is a squire in France, with my Lord his uncle, and I am here. I don't suppose I shall ever see him again in this world.

My mother was alive then. She was a most notable lady, always very still and quiet, but attending well to the ways of her household, and keeping all in their places, not by any assumption of greatness, but by the dignity and kindness of her own manners. She was a most kind mother, but not so fond as some, at least to me. It used to trouble me sometimes, till one day, by chance, I found out the reason, by overhearing some words spoken between her and an old gentlewoman, a kinswoman of hers, who stayed some time with her.

"Methinks Rosamond is no favorite," said my old lady. "And yet 'tis a good, docile little maid, more to my mind than Alice, with all her beauty."

"You are right, kinswoman," replied my mother; "but he who has the keeping of another's treasure, if he be wise, does not suffer himself to be overmuch looking upon or handling, the same. Rosamond is not mine. She is given to the Church, and I dare not give my mother's heart its way with her, lest my natural affections should rise up against my Lord's demands."

[I remember my own heart rather rose against this doctrine, even then. It seemed to me that our Lord cared for His own mother even on the cross. I knew that much, though I had never seen the Scriptures at that time, and I could not see why He should have given people natural affections only to be trampled on. Now I know that St. Paul places them who are without natural affection in no flattering category.]

When I showed this that I have written to dear mother, she said I must run my pen through what I wrote about Sister Catherine.* She said we must concern ourselves with our own faults and not with those of others. But somehow our own faults and other people's will get mixed together.

* So she did, but not so that I could not read it, and I judged best to write it out with the rest.—D. C.

[CHAPTER II.]

TO go on with my own life. One year ago my dear mother died, leaving us young ones to comfort my father, who sorely needed comfort, for he and mother were all in all to each other. Alice, who is three years older than I am, was betrothed to Sir John Fulton's eldest son, and by mother's special desire the wedding was hastened that she might have the pleasure of seeing, as she said, both her daughters settled in life. I think she would have liked me to make my profession also, though she would have grieved to part with me, but both my father and our good parish priest were against it, and even Mother Superior did not favor the notion. They all said I was far too young to know mine own mind, and that I ought not to take the irrevocable vows till I was eighteen at the least. So mother gave way.

Her death followed my sister's marriage so quickly, that the flowers I had gathered for her that day were not fairly withered when I plucked rosemary and rue to lay on her winding sheet. She passed sitting in her chair, and so quickly, that there was no time for the last sacraments: for we had not thought her in any imminent danger, though we all knew she must die soon. My father has spent much money in masses, and talks of building a chantry, with endowment for a priest to sing for her soul. The thought of my dear mother in purgatory ought to make me a saint, if nothing else did.

Father clung to me very closely, and could hardly bear me out of his sight after mother died, and yet he himself hurried my return to this place. It seemed hard that I could not stay and comfort him, Alice being away; but when I hinted at it, he reproved me, even sternly.

"Child, child! Would you make matters worse than they are now, by taking back what your mother gave? What is my comfort for a few days or years? Go—go, and pray for your mother's soul!"

What could I say but that I would go? Besides, it really is no great hardship. I love this house, and the Sisters, and they are all very good to me; even Sister Catherine means to be, I am sure, only she is so very strict. She says we are a shame to our order—we are Bernardines—and that if St. Francis were to come to earth again, he would not own us. Sister Catherine says the very fact of Amice and myself being in the house, as we are not novices, nor yet regular postulants, shows how far we have degenerated, and that it is enough to bring down a judgment on us. She talks about going to London and joining a house of Poor Clares, notable for the extreme strictness of their rule. I wish she would, I am sure.

I don't think myself that we are very strict—not nearly so much so as St. Clare was when she was on earth. Still we observe the canonical hours carefully, at least the nuns do, for Mother will not let us young ones be called up at night—and we do a great deal for the poor. Some half dozen families in the village here are clothed and fed by our community almost entirely. That same Roger Smith has help all the time, and yet he will not bring us so much as an eel without having the full price for it.

There are twenty professed nuns in this house, besides the Superior, Margaret Vernon, the Sacristine, Mother Agnes, Mother Gertrude, who has the principal charge of the novices and of us young ones, and Sister Catherine, whose charge is the wardrobe and linen-room and whose business is everyones but her own. Then there are three novices, Anne, Clara, and Frances, and Amice and myself, who for fault of a better name, are called pupils.

Amice Crocker is an orphan girl, niece to Mother Gertrude, and has no home but this. She is very devout, and seems to have a real vocation. She is always reading lives of the Saints, and trying to imitate their example, but her imitations do not always work very well. For instance, the other day Mother Gertrude sent her to the wardrobe to bring down some garments which were wanted in a hurry for a poor woman. She was gone fully half an hour, and at the last I was sent to look for her. I found her coming down very slowly; indeed she was pausing a minute or more on every stair.

"Amice, what makes you so slow?" I exclaimed, rather vexed. "Don't you know Mother is waiting?"

She did not answer me, but continued coming down a step and stopping, till Mother Gertrude herself came to see what was the matter, just as she reached the bottom.

"What ails the child?" said Mother, rather sharply. "The man would wait no longer, and now the poor woman must go without her cloak."

"I am very sorry!" answered Amice, meekly. "I was trying to emulate the example of that blessed young Saint, Sister Catherine was reading of yesterday; who, when he went up-stairs, always paused to say a prayer on every step."

I saw Mother's eyes twinkle, and the corners of her mouth twitch.

"Well, well, I wont scold you, child, but remember the next time you are sent on an errand that your business is to do the errand, and try rather to follow the example of St. Anthony, and be in two places at once."

I saw Amice was mortified. When we went away together she was silent a little, and I could see she was trying to keep back her tears. Presently she said:

"Rosamond, I think it is very hard to follow the example of the Saints. There are so many of them, and they are so very different."

"Perhaps it would be well to pick out one, and keep him for a model," said I.

"But how?" asked Amice. "Now, this same saint, for instance. When he was only five years old, he wanted a friar's habit, and he cried till he got it."

"He would have cried a long time if he had my mother to deal with!" said I. "Or rather, I think his crying would have been cut short rather suddenly."

"Just so!" said Amice. "We were taught to obey our parents in all things. Then, again, when he was eight years old, he saw his mother in a red dress, and reproved her severely, telling her that the color would drag her down to the flames of hell. Now I think (and I can't help thinking), that Sister Catherine's way of snubbing and putting down poor Sister Bridget (though she does say silly things, to be sure), is worse than wearing a red gown: but suppose I should reprove her, what do you think would happen?"

"I can guess!" said I, and we both laughed; but Amice looked very sober again, directly.

"So you see, Rosamond, I don't know what to do, because whatever Saint you choose for a model, you seem to run against somebody. And that makes me say I wish there were not so many."

"If we knew all about our Lady, or one of the Holy Apostles," said I, doubtfully; "or suppose you should take St. Clare, or St. Agnes."

"Well, St. Clare did not obey her parents either; she ran away from her father's house at midnight, and went to St. Frances!"

"Yes, but that was because she had such a high vocation," I answered, "and her parents opposed her. I suppose that is different. Anyhow, Amice, we can do as we are told, and that is always a comfort. Perhaps it is the safest way for girls like us."

"If we had our Lord's life, that would be the best of all," continued Amice, not paying much attention to my words: "but then, of course, we never could hope to follow that, when we cannot even reach the example of Saint Francis and Saint Clare. Anyhow, I wish I could read it for once—all of it."

"Why, Amice, how can you say such a thing?" said I, rather sharply, I am afraid. "Don't you know what Father Fabian said in his sermon—that it was the reading of the Scriptures by unlearned men which made all the heresies and schisms which have come up in Germany and the Low Countries?"

Amice looked so distressed that I was sorry for my words directly.

"I am sure I don't want to be a heretic, or anything else that is wrong!" said she, with tears in her eyes. "I would like to please everybody, but somehow I am always going wrong and making mistakes, as I did to-day. I keep seeing that poor woman going over the moors in the cold wind, without any cloak, and yet I meant no harm."

"I am sure you never mean to be anything but the dearest girl in the world," said I, kissing her. "As to what happened to-day, I wouldn't think of it any more."

"I don't see that I can do anything about it now, only to make it an occasion of humility," says Amice.

"I don't think you can do anything better with it than to let it alone and think about something else," says I, and so the matter ended.

[CHAPTER III.]

Feast of St. Agnes, April 20.

A YEAR ago at this time I was at home, busily preparing flowers and wreaths for my sister's bridal, under dear mother's eye. I knew Alice wanted violets, and Dick and I went to search for them in the coombe, where the banks being shady, the violets do longest linger. When we had filled our baskets with the flowers, which we found in abundance, both white and blue, we sat down a little on the moss to listen to the singing of the birds and the lapse of the water. These gentle sounds, albeit most sweet and tender, did somewhat dispose us to silence, if not melancholy. Presently Richard said:

"I wonder where we shall be a year from now, Rosamond? You know this same spring used to be a favorite haunt of the Fair Dame of Stanton, my ancestress. They say she used to see in the bosom of the water, as in a mirror, all that was to come to pass."

"I can tell pretty well where we shall be a year from now, without any of the Fair Dame's art," said I. "You know she was said to be a heretic, if not worse."

"Yes, but I don't believe it!" answered Dick, valiantly. "I believe she was a good woman, and a good wife. But since you know so well, tell me where we shall be?"

"You will be in France with my Lord your uncle," said I, "or else attending him at Court, winning your spurs by brave deeds, or dancing with fair dames and damsels; and I shall be at the convent, working of cut-work copes and altar-cloths in silk and gold; or helping Mother Gertrude dry herbs, and distil cordials, and make comfits: or studying the lives of the Saints; or—"

"Be wasting your time and youth on some nonsense or other," interrupted Richard, who never could bear to hear of my being a nun. "It is a shame!"

"It was my mother's doing, and I will not hear a word against it!" said I. "Besides, I don't know why I shouldn't be happy there as well as anywhere else. A great many nuns are happy, and beside that, Dick, to be happy is not the business of life."

Dick received this remark with the grunt which he always bestows on my wise speeches, and we were silent for a time. Then Dick said passionately, all at once—pointing to a chaffinch, a dear little fowl, which sat on a twig singing his very heart out, "Sweetheart! Sweetheart!" over and over again:

"Rosamond, nothing shall make me think that yonder bird does not serve God just as acceptably while he is flitting about gathering food for his young ones, and singing in the free air of heaven, as if he were shut behind the bars of a cage, singing the same song over and over, after the old bird-catcher's whistle."

"The bird is only a bird," I answered, "and, as Master Ellenwood often tells us, comparisons are no arguments. Besides, Dick, I have to go, so where is the use of repining? My mother has promised for me, and I have promised her again this very day (and so I had); so where is the use of an argument?"

"It's a shame!" said Dick, passionately; adding, "If you cared for me as I do for you, you wouldn't talk so coolly of its being an end."

Whereat there was nothing to do but to rise and return to the house.

I don't know why I have written this down, only it is a part of my life. There can be no harm in it, because Richard and I can never be anything to each other—not even brother and sister—because a good religious knows no ties of natural affection. No doubt the coombe is full this very day of violets and primroses, and all other sweet flowers, and the spring is welling up and running over its basin all among the moss and fern, and the brook liverwort; and I dare say the very same chaffinch is singing there this minute. There are violets in our convent garden as well, but they are planted in a straight bed, and Mother Gabrielle uses the flowers to make her sirups, and the leaves are gathered for our sallets. There is a spring, too, but not one bit like that in the coombe. That boils up out of a deep and wide cleft in the rock, filling its basin full and running over the stones in twenty little vagrant streams. Great ferns grow over and shade it, and leaves drop into it in the autumn, and birds and wild-wood creatures come to drink of its waters. This pours in a steady orderly stream from a pipe which sticks straight out from the wall, and runs down a straight course, paved and edged with cut stone, into the stew-pond where we keep our fish.

Still our convent garden is a sweet and pretty place, full of orderly knots and beds of flowers and herbs, chiefly such as are good to distil cordials, or to help out our messes on fast days—rue, and mints, and hyssops, and angelica, and caraway, and burnet—with abundance of roses, and poppies, and white lilies, and a long bed of sweet flowers for the bees.

We have a fine stock of beehives. Then we have plum and pear and apple trees, and a bed of strawberries. At the end of the garden are two most ancient elm trees, and under them a very small, and very, very old chapel of our Lady of Sorrows. Dear Mother says it is by far the oldest part of the convent. It is very small, as I said, built of huge stones, with low heavy arches. Over the altar stands the image of our Lady, rudely carved in some dark wood. It is a very holy image, and used to work miracles in old times. I wish it would again. I should dearly love to see a miracle.

At the back of this chapel, and joining it, so as to be under the same roof, is another building, very low and massive, with no windows, but one very narrow slit, close under the eaves. A heavy iron-studded door opens into it from the chapel itself. Mother Gertrude told me one day that it contained the staircase leading to a burial vault under the chapel, now never used, and that it had not been opened for years and years.

The Sisters are not fond of this shrine, holy as it is, and I think they are afraid of it. Indeed I know Sister Bridget told me that if an unfaithful nun were to watch there over night, she would be found dead on the floor in the morning—if indeed a ghost or demon did not arise from the vault and drag her down to a living death below.

"I should not think a ghost would dare to come into the sacred place!" said Amice.

"Evil spirits have power over the unfaithful, wherever they are—remember that, child!" said Sister Bridget, solemnly.

"And over the faithful too, sometimes," said Amice, who is as usual reading the lives of Saints. "I am sure St. Frances was dreadfully disturbed by them."

"Power to disturb, but not to destroy them, child. But prayers offered at that shrine have great efficacy for the deliverance of souls from purgatory," said old Mother Mary Monica, who is the oldest person in the house, and very fond of the company of us young ones. "If any one had a friend in purgatory, and should watch all night in prayer before that image, it would go far to deliver him."

"Do you really think so, Mother?" I asked.

"Think so, child! I know it for a truth. The blessed Saint Ethelburga herself tried it, and was assured by a vision and a miracle that her prayers were granted. Eh dear, I could tell you many stories of miracles, my daughters. They used to be plenty in my young days. Why, I was converted by a miracle myself."

"Tell us about it, dear Mother, will you?" said Amice and I both together; and Amice added, "See, here is a nice seat, and the warm sun is good for your pains, you know."

So she sat down, the good old soul, and Amice and I on stones at her feet, and she told us the tale. I will set it down just as I remember it.

"You must know, my children, that I was a giddy young girl in attendance on the Queen—not the Queen that now is, but Queen Elizabeth, wife of Henry the Seventh, this King's father—when I went with my mistress to make a retreat at the convent of the poor Clares, in London—"

"The same that Sister Catherine is always praising," said I.

"Yes, the very same; but don't you put me out. Where was I?"

"Where you went with the Queen to make a retreat, dear Mother."

"O yes. Well, I had been a giddy girl, as I told you, but I had been somewhat sobered of late, because my cousin Jack, whom my father always meant I should wed, had been on the wrong side in the late troubles, and was in hiding at that time. Now, I liked Jack right well, and was minded to marry none other; but I was a King's ward, my father being dead, and I having a good fortune. So I had a many suitors, and I knew the King was favorable to a knight, Sir Edward Peckham, of Somerset, who had come to him with help just at the right time. Now, I wanted nobody but Jack; but of all my suitors there was none that I misliked so much as Sir Edward Peckham!"

"Why?" asked I, much interested.

"Because I could not abide him, child. That was reason enough. Well, things being even in this shape, I was glad enough when my mistress made her retreat in the convent of the Poor Clares, and chose me to attend on her, out of all her train. That was a strict order, children. Matins at one o'clock in the morning—not overnight, as we have them here—no food till dinner at eleven, and no flesh meat even on feast days—almost perpetual silence! Well, it was always and ever my way to fall in with whatever was going on, let it be what it might; so I fasted and prayed with the best, and kept all the hours, till I was so tired I could hardly stand. In the midst of it all came a messenger to my mistress from the King, bidding her return to the Court in three days and bring me with her, for the King was minded that my marriage should no longer be put off.

"Children, I was like one distracted, and I was all but ready to cast myself away, body and soul. The Mother Superior marked my grief, and I was won to tell her the whole. She was an austere woman—not one bit like our Mother—but she was very kind to me in my trouble—"

"I am sure our dear Mother Superior is a saint, if ever there was one," said I.

"That she is, that she is, child; but there may be a difference in saints, you know. Well, Mother Superior pitied my grief, and soothed me, and when I was quieted like, she councilled me to watch all night before a shrine in which were some very holy relics—specially part of the veil of St. Clare, our blessed founder."

"'Perhaps the Saint may take pity on you and show you the way out of your present troubles,' said she. 'Fast this day from all food, my daughter, and this night I will myself conduct you to the shrine where you are to watch.'"

"Well, children, I did fast and say my rosary all the rest of the day, till I was ready to drop; and at nine at night the Mother Superior led me to a little chapel off the church, where was the shrine of St. Clare. It was all dark—only looking toward the church I could just see the glimmer of the ever-burning lamp, before the Holy Sacrament of the Altar. Here she left me, and here I was to kneel till daylight, saying my prayers and the seven psalms."

"I don't see how you could kneel so long," said Amice.

"I might lie prone a part of the time, if I would," replied Mother Mary Monica, "and so indeed I did. I don't know what time it was—somewhere before Matins, and I know not whether overcome with fatigue I had not dozed a little, when I was waked by a bright light. I raised myself on my knees, and looking toward the altar, I saw the figure of St. Clare surrounded by a clear but mild radiance, and holding out to me in her hand a nun's veil, while a voice of heavenly sweetness, said to me these words: 'Here, my child, is thy only refuge.' The light faded away, and I sunk down—in a swoon this time, for when some of the Sisters came to seek me at prime, they found me pale and lifeless, while—mark, my daughters—on my head was laid that most sacred relic, the veil of St. Clare—yes, on this unworthy head the blessed veil was laid."

We both looked at the good Mother in a kind of awe.

"Well, I told the good Sisters and my mistress what I had seen. There could be no doubt after that in my mind, especially as two or three days after I had certain news of Jack's death. The King would not hear of my profession at first, but the Prior of the Franciscans took my part, and his Majesty would not have liked setting the whole of the Gray Friars against him; so he gave way, and even paid over my portion, which must have gone hard, for his blessed Majesty was fond of money; and Sir Edward went home riding alone, with a flea in his ear, instead of a bride by his side. Marry him, indeed, with his thin legs and his long lean jaws! So that is the way I was converted, my children, and got my own way, by the help of the Blessed St. Clare, to whom I have always had a particular devotion ever since. And who knows what miracles might be vouchsafed to you, if you were to watch all night before the shrine of our Lady?"

We had no time for any more talk just then, but ever since I have been turning over in my mind what Mother Mary Monica said. It does seem dreadful to me—the thought of watching all night and alone in that dreary place without a light. To be sure, the moon is at the full, and would shine directly into the great window, but then those dreadful vaults, and Sister Bridget's story do so run in my head. Every time the wind shook the ivy or whistled in the loopholes of the stones, I should fancy it a rustle among the graves below, or the grating of that heavy door on its hinges. And then, so cold and damp.

Wretch that I am, to weigh these things one moment in the balance against my dear mother's soul! I feel sure that she could not have died in mortal sin, but to pass without the sacraments, without one moment's warning! Oh, it is dreadful! And then her marrying instead of taking the veil. That I think troubles dear Mother Superior worse than anything. Yes, I am quite resolved. I will watch this very night before the shrine in the garden chapel; but I will tell nobody of my resolve, save Amice and Mother Gertrude. I don't want the whole flock exclaiming, pitying or praising me, or hinting at my setting up for a saint, as some of them do.

[Of course, being now enlightened by Holy Scripture, I do not believe that my dear mother was benefitted by my watching, nor indeed that she needed such benefit; but I will ever maintain that the exertion to overcome my own fears (which were very terrible), for my mother's sake, was of great service to me. 'Twas a true act of self-sacrifice, though done in ignorance, and that not to pile up a stock of merit for myself, but to do good to another.]

[CHAPTER IV.]

Feast of St. Catherine, April 29.

THIS is the first time I have been able to write since my watching at our Lady's shrine, at which time I took such a chill and rheum as have kept me laid up ever since. Mother Gertrude was much opposed thereto, but could say nothing against it, seeing that Mother Superior had given her consent.

"If she wants to send the child after her mother, she has taken the next way to do it," I heard her mutter to herself.

"Why, dear Mother, should you have such fears for me," I asked. "I have lately confessed (and so I had the day before), and I am sure I am not false to my vows, because I have never taken any. Why, then, should the demon have power over me?"

"I was not thinking of the demon, child, but of the damp," answered Mother Gertrude, in her matter-of-fact way. "However I say no more. I know how to be obedient, after all these years. And nobody can deny but it is a good daughter's heart which moves thee, my child, and so God and all the Saints bless thee."

Amice would have shared my watch, only it was needful one should go alone; but she promised to watch in her cell. She went with me to the chapel door, as did Mother Gertrude, and we said some prayers together. Then, as the hour of nine tolled, they kissed me and went their way, leaving me to my solitary watch and ward.

Oh, what a lone and long night it was! I did not mind it so much before midnight, for the moon shone fair into the great east window, and two nightingales, in the garden outside, answered each other most melodiously from side to side. My mother ever loved the nightingale above all other birds, because she said its song reminded her of her young days in the midland of England. They are rare visitors with us. But, as I said, dear mother ever loved this bird's song, and now their voices seemed to come as a message from herself, in approval of what I was doing. I knelt on the cold stones, before our Lady's shrine, saying my rosary, and repeating of Psalms, and the first two hours did not seem so very long. But the birds stopped singing. The moon moved on her course, so that the chapel was left almost in darkness. The south-west wind rose and brought with it all kinds of dismal sounds, now moaning and sobbing at the casement, and shaking it as if to gain an entrance; now, as it seemed, whispering in the vaults under my feet, as if the ghosts might be holding a consultation as to the best way of surprising me. Anon, the great heavy door of which I have before spoken, did a little jar on its hinges, and from behind it came, as it seemed, the rustling of wings, and then a thrilling cry as of a soul in pain.

I felt my blood grow cold, and my flesh creep, and my head swim. But 'tis not the custom of our house for the women more than the men to give way to fear, and I was determined I would not be overcome. I said stoutly to myself, "That sobbing and whispering is of the wind—those wings are the wings of bats or owls, which have found refuge in the old tower—that is the cry of the little white owl, which I have heard a hundred times at home—that low roar is the rote of the surf which we ever hear at night when the wind is south-west."

So I reasoned with myself, and then to calm myself still farther, I began to repeat the Psalms, of which I know the greater part by heart, thanks to Master Ellenwood, beginning with the Psalm, "Beati, quorum." And here a strange thing happened to me, for no sooner had I repeated the words, "Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, mercy embraceth him on every side," than there came over me such a wonderful sweetness and confidence as I am not able to describe. I seemed to feel that I was in the very house of God, where no harm could come to me, nor any evil thing hurt me. And 'twas not only for myself that I felt this assurance, but for my dear mother also. "If ever woman did put her trust in God, I am sure she did so," I said to myself, "and therefore, wherever she is, I have His own word for believing her to be embraced in the arms of His mercy."

And with that I went to prayer again, for my father and brother, and for Alice and her husband, and her young babe, and then for poor Dick. And (I know not if right or wrong) I used no form of words, but did pour out my soul almost as freely as if I had been talking alone with mother in her closet, when kneeling beside her, with my arms on her lap, she used graciously to encourage me to pour out all my thoughts and fancies.

If that had been all, there had been no great harm done, mayhap; but from praying for Dick, I fell to thinking of him, and recalling all our passages together, from the early days when my father used to set me behind him on the old pony, and when we used to build forts and castles on the sand of the shore, to our last sad parting, almost a year ago.

'Twas very wrong to indulge such thoughts in such a sacred place, and that I knew, and did constantly strive to bring my mind into a better frame. But the more I tried the more I wandered, and at last I believe I dropped asleep. I could not have slept long, when I was waked by the most horrid screams and cries—now like those of a young child, now like a woman in fits, now like the ravings of a madman, all seemingly in the chapel itself. I fell prostrate on my face, at the same moment that something rushed by me with a great noise, closely pursued by something else, which brushed me as it passed.

Now, though terribly scared, I yet felt my spirit rise as I discovered that the thing had a material existence; and though the cold sweat stood on my forehead, and my heart seemed all but to stop beating, I raised myself once more on my knees and looked around. My eyes had by this time grown used to the dim light, and I could see, crouched on the very step of the altar, a dark creature, which looked at me with green fiery eyes. Then it came to me, and I all but laughed aloud.

"Puss, Puss!" said I.

"Mieeo!" answered a friendly voice, and poor old Tom, our convent cat, came to me, rubbing his head, and purring in quite an ecstasy of joyful surprise.

I saw in a moment how it was. Tom is a regular Lollard of a cat, and cares no more for the Church than the cowhouse—indeed Sister Catherine once found him sitting on the high altar, and would have slain him, had not Mother Superior interfered. He had been entertaining a select party of his own friends in the Lady Chapel, and some cause of dispute arising, he had chased them all out, and remained master of the field.

I took the old fellow in my arms, and caressed him, and he bumped his head against my face, making his prettiest noises. Then I rose and walked to and fro to warm myself a little, for it was very chill, and tried once more to bring my thoughts in order by repeating my favorite Psalm, though not with as much comfort: as before, because of the sin I had committed by thinking of Dick when I should have been praying. However, at the words, "I said I will confess my sins unto the Lord," I found consolation, for I thought, "then I need not wait to confess to Father Fabian, but can make my confession now, in this place."

So I did, and then once more repeating my rosary, I sat down on a rude bench which was there, to rest a few moments. That was the last of my meditations and prayers, for I fell fast asleep, with Puss in my lap, and slept till I was waked by the sun shining into the great east window. I was very sleepy, and could hardly make out where I was; but, however, I said my prayers once more, and then Mother Gertrude came to seek me, and make me go to bed.

Ever since then, my mind has been wonderfully calmed and comforted about my mother. I seem to see her, embraced by mercy on every side, and entered into her rest. So I do not grudge my cold, though it has kept me in bed ten days, during which time Mother Gertrude has fed me with possets and sirups, and good things more than I can eat.

This morning I made a full confession to Father Fabian of my wandering thoughts during my night watch, and the rest. The good old man was very kind, and gave me light penance. I asked him what I must do to prevent such wanderings in future.

"I will consider of that," said he. "You are a Latin scholar, and can write a good hand, they tell me."

I assured him that I could write fair and plain, and had a good knowledge of Latin, so that I could read and write it with ease.

"Ah, well!" said he. "We must find some way to turn these gifts to account. Meantime, daughter, be busy in whatever you find to do whereby you can help others; say your psalms, and meditate on them, and never trouble thyself about the devil."

'Twas an odd saying, methought, for a priest. I told Amice all about my night watch, as I do tell her everything.

"Do you really think—" said she, and then she stopped.

"Well, do I really think what?" I asked, seeing she did not continue.

"Do you think you have any ground for your confidence about your mother, from that verse in the Psalm?"

I felt hurt for a minute, and I suppose my face showed it, for Amice added, "Don't be displeased, Rosamond. I only ask because it seems almost too good to be true. If you should find what seemed to be a precious pearl, you would wish to know whether it really was a pearl, or only an imitation, wouldn't you?"

"To be sure," I answered, and then I considered a little.

"Yes, I do think I have ground for my confidence, though I am not quite sure I can explain it. You know, Amice, the Psalms are inspired—a part of the word of God, and therefore, surely, their promises are to be taken as true. The Psalm says, 'Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, mercy embraceth him on every side.' Now, I know my dear mother did put her trust in the Lord, if woman ever did in this world, and, therefore, I am at ease for her, though she died without the Sacraments, which was not her fault."

"You used your night watch to good purpose, if you thought out all this," said Amice.

"I did not think it out—it came to me," said I.

"Came to you—how?" asked Amice.

"I can't tell you," I answered, I am afraid, a little impatiently. "I am not used to taking all my thoughts and feelings to pieces, as you do. I only know that it seemed to come to me from outside my own mind—to be breathed into my heart, as somebody might whisper in my ear."

"It is very lovely," said Amice, with a sigh. "It is like some of the visions of the Saints. I think, Rosamond, you will be a Saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine."

"I don't believe it," said I. "It is a great deal more in your way than mine."

We were busy in the garden while we were talking, gathering rosemary and violets for Mother Gertrude to distil. Amice had her lap full of rosemary, and she sat down and began pulling it into little bits.

"Rosamond," said she, presently, looking about her, and speaking in a low tone, "do you really like the notion of being a nun?"

"To tell you the truth, I never ask myself whether I like it or not," I answered her. "What is the use? I had no choice in the matter myself. Here I am, and I must needs make the best of it. There would be little profit in my asking myself whether I really liked to be a woman instead of a man. I like being here in the garden, pulling flowers for Mother Gertrude, and I like taking care of the books, dusting them and reading a bit here and there, and I like singing in the church, and working for the poor folk, though I should like still better to teach them to work for themselves."

"I suppose, of course, it is the highest life to which one can obtain!" said Amice, thoughtfully. "And yet I suppose it must have been meant that some people should marry and bring up families."

"I suppose it must, since without some such arrangement, the race of religious must come to an end before long," said I.

"Of course!" continued Amice, in the same musing tone. "You know St. Augustine had a mother, and so did St. Frances!"

"Did you ever hear of any one who had not?" said I, laughing. "But to return your question upon yourself, Amice, how do you like the notion of being a nun?"

"Not one bit!" said Amice, with emphasis.

I never was more surprised in my life, for I had always thought that if any one ever had a vocation it was Amice Crocker.

"The life is so narrow!" she continued, with vehemence, pulling so impatiently at her rosemary that she scratched her fingers. "Just look at the most of our sisters."

"Well, what of them?" I asked. "They are very well, I am sure. Sister Catherine is rather prying and meddling, and Sister Bridget is silly, and a good many of them are rather fond of good eating, and of gossip, but they are kindly souls, after all. And where will you find better women than dear Mother Superior, or Mother Gertrude, or a pleasanter companion than Mother Mary Monica, when she is in the mood of telling her old tales?"

"That may be all so, but what does it amount to, after all?" said Amice. "Look at that same Mother Mary Monica. She has been a nun in this and the other house sixty years, and what have those sixty years brought to pass? What has she to show for them?"

"Well, a good deal of embroidery," said I, considering. "She worked that superb altar cloth, and those copes that we use still on grand occasions, and she has made hundreds of pounds of sweetmeats, and gallons on gallons of cordials."

"And the sweetmeats are eaten, and the cordials drank, and in a few years the embroidery—what remains of it—will be rags and dust! Old Dame Lee in the village has ten sons, and I know not how many grandsons and daughters, all good and useful folk."

"And Roger Smith has a dozen children, each one more useless and idle than the other," said I.

"I can't endure the thought of such a life," continued Amice. "It sickens me—it frightens me. I would not be a religious unless I could be a great saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine.'

"Why don't you, then?" I asked.

She looked strangely at me, methought, but made no reply, and Mother Gertrude calling us, we talked no more at that time. But I have been considering the matter, and I can't but think Amice was wrong. I have seen more of home life than she, and I know that of very necessity a great part of any woman's life—yea, and of almost any man's—must needs be spent in doing the same things over and over again; in making garments to be worn out, and preparing food to be eaten, and hushing children, and ordering the household. All these things have to be done, or there would be no such thing as family life—nay, there could be no convent life—and so long as they are necessary, I think there must be some way of hallowing them and making them acceptable offerings to Heaven, as well as prayers, and watching, and penance. I mean to ask Mother Gertrude.

[CHAPTER V.]

Eve of St. John, May 5th.

FATHER FABIAN has set me to work, as he promised, and I like my task very much. I am translating into English the work of a German monk named Thomas à Kempis. The piece is called, "The Imitation of Christ," and is, of course, of a religious character, and is so good, so spiritual, and yet so plain in its teaching, as I think, nothing could be better, unless it were the Holy Gospel itself. There is a great deal of it, and I go on but slowly, for I am desirous of doing my very best therein; and besides I am often impelled to stop and meditate on what I am writing. Besides this, Mother Superior has made me librarian, and I am to keep all the books in order—no very hard task, methinks, when nobody ever touches them but Amice and myself.

Amice still studies the lives of the Saints as diligently as ever. I know not what has come over her, but she seems very much changed the last few days. She is silent and reserved, spends as much of her time alone as she possibly can, eats hardly anything, and only of the plainest and coarsest food. She has always been very open with me, but now even when we are together she says hardly a word. I think I will ask her what is the matter. Maybe I have offended her in some way, though I am sure I don't know how.

This afternoon I had the great pleasure of a visit from my father, who came to consult Father Fabian on the matter of a priest for the chantry he means to build. He looks worn and thin, but says he is well, as are all at home. Alice's babe is a fine boy, at which they are all much pleased, all the Fultons of the second generation so far being maidens. Alice herself is well and happy, and sends me her love and a tiny curl of her boy's hair, of which he has a plenty.

"So he is dark," said I, looking at the pretty tress.

"Aye, black as a Corby," answered my father, smiling more like himself, than I have seen him in a long time. "'Tis a true Corbet brat."

"And yourself, dear father, are you quite well?" I ventured to ask.

"Yes, child, well and over well," he answered, somewhat peevishly, "if this journey to London does not kill me!"

"To London!" I exclaimed. "Dear father, what can take you to London?"

"Even that same need which makes the old wife to trot, chick! I must see my Lord before he goes abroad, concerning certain leases and the like. It is through no good will of mine, I promise thee, for I was never fond either of Court or city in my best days, and now—But how goes it with you, child?" he asked, interrupting himself. "Methinks you are thin and pale."

I told him of my cold, and how I had taken it. I could see he was pleased, though he bade me be careful of my health.

"I would watch a dozen nights myself in the darkest vault under the church if it would do her any good!" he muttered, with so sad a look and such a deep sigh, that I was compelled to speak and tell him how I had been comforted concerning my mother. He listened in silence, and dashed the tears from his eyes when I had done.

"I would—I would I could think so," he said; "but to die without the sacraments—and I was the tempter to lead her from her vocation. But, take comfort, child, if thou canst. It may be thou art right, after all."

"I feel sure of it," said I; and then I reminded him how devout and humble dear mother was—how careful of all those under her government, and how exact in training them to ways of devotion and truth; and I repeated to him sundry verses of the Psalms, on which I had been thinking a great deal of late.

"Well, well, you seem to have thought to good purpose," said he, at last. "Master Ellenwood, at least, would hold with you. He is all for making of my chantry a school for the young maids of the village, where they may learn to spin and sew, and say their prayers, and even to read. He says it would be a better offering to your mother's memory than a useless chapel and a lazy fat priest, such as these chantry clerks often grow to be."

"I am sure mother would be pleased," said I. "You know she always did favor the notion of a school."

"There is something in that," answered my father, ruminating in silence a minute. "Well, child, I must needs go on my way. Hast no word for my Lord and poor Dick, who goes with him to France?"

I sent my humble duty to my Lord, and with Mother Superior's permission, a little book of prayers to Dick, who I know neglects his devotions sometimes. I think he will use the book for my sake. Dear father bestowed on me his blessing, and a beautiful gold and ebony rosary, which had once been mother's, and then rode away. I wondered when I should see him again. It is a very long and not very safe journey to London from these parts.

I showed Mother Superior my rosary, and the little lock of baby's hair. She looked long at the beads, and returned them to me with a sigh.

"I remember them well," said she. "They came from Rome, and have the blessing of our Holy Father the Pope. Did your mother use them?"

"Not often, as I think," I answered. "She liked better a string of beads of carved wood, which she said my father brought her from the East country before she was married."

"Olive wood, belike," said Mother, "though I fear 'twas your father's giving them which made them precious. Your mother's strong and warm natural affections were a snare to her, my child. See that they be not so to you, for you are as like her as one pea is to another."

"But was it not mother's duty to love my father, since she was his wife?" I ventured to ask.

"Surely, child! 'Tis the duty of all wives. The trouble was in her being a wife at all, since she forsook a higher vocation to become one. Nobody can deny that the vocation of a religious is far higher than that of a wife."

"But if there were no wives, there would by-and-by be no religious," said I; whereat dear Mother smiled and patted my cheek, telling me that my tongue ran too fast and far for a good novice, and that she must find means to tame it. However, I do not think she was angry.

Sister Frances says that everything I do is right because I do it, and that I am the favorite both with Mother Superior and Mother Gertrude. If I am—which I don't believe, because I think both the dear Mothers mean to be just to all—I am sure I shall never take any advantage of their kindness.

When I got a chance, I showed my treasures to Amice.

"You wont keep them, will you?" asked Amice.

"Keep them! Of course I shall!" I answered, rather indignantly, I am afraid. "What would you have me do with my dear mother's rosary and the baby's curl?"

"'A good religious will have nothing which she calls her own,'" said Amice, as if quoting something. "She will strive for perfection, and to acquire that she must be wholly detached from all human affections, so that mother or child, husband or brother, shall be no more to her than the rest of the world. Are we not expressly told in the lives of the Saints that St. Francis disregarded the remonstrances and the curses of his father, and that even the tears and prayers of his mother were nothing to him? Did not St. Clare, our blessed founder, fly from her father's house at midnight, and by the advice of St. Francis himself, conceal the step she was about to take from her father and mother, and did not St. Agnes herself shortly do the same, and absolutely refuse to return, though she was but fourteen years old?"

"But Amice, Master Ellenwood told me himself, that, 'Honor thy father and mother,' is one of the chief commandments," I objected. "And besides I am not yet a religious."

"But you mean to be—you have promised to be one," answered Amice. "I don't know about the commandments, but I do know that our order is specially dedicated to holy poverty, and you cannot embrace that, and call anything your own—not so much as your rosary or the clothes you wear. I think you should burn this hair, and offer the rosary on the shrine of our Lady, in the garden."

"I will ask Mother Gertrude about it," said I; and the good Mother entering at that moment, I laid the case before her. She smiled rather sadly, methought, and looked lovingly at the little curl of baby hair, as it lay on her hand.

"So you think it is not right for you to keep these things?" said she.

"Not I, but Amice," I answered. "She says it is not consistent with holy poverty."

"And dost think, child, it is very consistent with holy humility, or holy obedience either, for thee to be giving spiritual council or direction to thy sister?" asked Mother Gertrude, turning somewhat sharply to Amice, who colored, but said nothing.

"I don't think Amice was in fault, Mother," I ventured to say, for I thought she was hard upon Amice. "She only told me what she thought."

"Well, well, maybe not," answered the old nun, relenting as she ever does after the first sharp word; "I did not mean to chide, but I am put past my patience with meddling and tattling, and what not. As to the rosary, you had better ask Father Fabian, or Mother Superior. Come, children, you should be at your work, and not idling here. I wish, Rosamond, that Father Fabian had found some one else to copy his precious manuscripts. I want you to help about ordering the patterns for the new copes, and mending the altar linen. There is nobody in the house can equal you in a pattern or a darn, save Mother Mary Monica, and her eyes and hands are both too far gone, for such work."

"Cannot I help you, Mother?" said Amice, with an evident effort.

"You! No, child, thank you all the same, not till you learn the use of your fingers better than you have it now."

Amice colored, but answered not a word.

"But, dear Mother, I dare say the manuscript can wait," said I. "There is no hurry, I know, for Father Fabian told me I might take my time about it, and I can do it at one time as well as another, even by lamplight; when I cannot work, I can help about the copes, part of the day, or until they are finished."

"That's my good child," said she. "Well, come down to the sacristy in about half an hour, and we will get them all out, and consider them. We want to have everything in apple-pie order, you see." And the good Mother bustled away.

"So I must leave my writing and go to working, it seems." said I, rather pettishly, I fear, for I do love my translating, and I am not devoted to cut-work and darning, though, thanks to dear Mother, I rather excel in both these arts. "However, 'tis to please Mother Gertrude, and 'tis all in the day's work. But what is the matter, Amice?" I added, seeing tears in her eyes; "surely you need not think so much of a word from Mother Gertrude. You know 'tis her way?"

"I know it," answered Amice. "I ought to have knelt at her feet and thanked her for her reproof, instead of feeling hurt. I have lost a chance for exercising holy humility. I can go down to the sacristy and do it when you meet her there."

"I'll tell you a better way," said I. "Get a piece of linen and set yourself to work in earnest to practise the stitches, so that you can help her another time; for you know, dear, you really don't work very neatly, because you won't keep your mind on your work. You are always wool-gathering—maybe I should say meditating—about something else. Come now, that will be the best way. I am sure Mother will be willing to have me teach you, or to show you herself."

"Thank you, sister Rosamond; but really I don't perceive such a great difference between our work as you do!" said Amice, coldly. "It will be time to come to the sacristy when I am asked."

"Just as you please," said I, rather vexed. "I thought you wished a chance for holy humility, that's all."

And I came away without another word, and went down to the sacristy, where Mother Gertrude and the Sacristine had all the vestments spread out in great array. There was one old cambric cope done in cut-work so fine as to resemble lace, but so worn and decayed that it fairly broke with its own weight.

"What a pity!" said the Sacristine. "Do you think you could mend it, Rosamond? There is not such another—no, not at Glastonbury itself, Father Fabian says."

"I don't believe it can be mended!" said I, considering it. "You see the fabric is so old there is nothing to hold the darning thread. But if I had a piece of fine cambric, I think I can work another like it. At any rate, I can try; and if I don't succeed, there will be no great harm done."

The Mothers were both pleased, and Mother Superior coming in, the matter was laid before her.

"Can you accomplish it, daughter?" she asked. "This is a very curious piece of work."

"I can try!" said I. "If I fail, there will be no great loss."

"True, my child, but your translation?"

"Oh, Father Fabian will excuse me, or I can work at it a part of the time. Perhaps that will be the best way!"

So it was settled, and Mother Superior said she would send directly and procure the cambric and thread.

[CHAPTER VI.]

May 15th.

I HAVE drawn my patterns and made a beginning, after practising the lace stitches on something else, and am really succeeding very well. I take two hours a day for that and two for my translation. I did not mean to have my work seen till I found out whether it were like to turn out well, but Mother Sacristine was so pleased, she must needs publish the matter. I can see plainly that some of the Sisters are not pleased at all; indeed Sister Catherine said plainly 'twas not fit such an honor should be laid on the youngest person in the house, and not even one of the professed.

I am sure I never thought of its being such a great honor—only that it pleases the dear Mothers, I would much rather work at my translation or make baby clothes for the women in the village. I can't help thinking too (though perhaps I ought not to write it), that our Lord Himself would be quite as well pleased to have my skill employed in clothing the naked little ones baptized in His name, as to have it used to add one more piece of finery to the twenty-five costly copes, and other vestments in proportion, in which our house takes so much pride. But these are matters too high for me to judge, and I know He will approve of my obeying and striving to please those whom He hath set in place of parents to me.