“Some share of this is owing to contrast, Fifine. Your convent life had not too many pleasures.”
“It was, or rather it seems to me now, as I look back, a long and weary dream; but, at the same time, it appears more real than this; for do what I may I cannot imagine this to be the world of misery and sorrow I have heard so much of. Can any one fancy a scene more beautiful than this before us? Where is the perfume more exquisite than these violets I now crush in my hand? The peasants, as they salute us, look happy and contented. Is it, then, only in great cities that men make each other miserable?”
Dinah shook her head, but did not speak.
“I am so glad grandpapa does not live in a city. Aunt, I am never wearied of hearing you talk of that dear cottage beside the river; and through all my present delight I feel a sense of impatience to be there, to be at 'home.'”
“So that you will not hold us to our pledge to bring you back to Bramaigne, Fifine,” said Miss Dinah, smiling.
“Oh no, no! Not if you will let me live with you. Never!”
“But you have been happy up to this, Fifine? You have said over and over again that your convent life was dear to you, and all its ways pleasant.”
“It is just the same change to me to live as I now do, as in my heart I feel changed after reading out one of those delightful stories to grandpapa,—Rob Roy, for instance. It all tells of a world so much more bright and beautiful than I know of, that it seems as though new senses were given to me. It is so strange and so captivating, too, to hear of generous impulses, noble devotion,—of faith that never swerved, and love that never faltered.
“In novels, child; these were in novels.”
“True, aunt; but they had found no place there had they been incredible; at least, it is clear that he who tells the tale would have us believe it to be true.”