“Cousin Bertie, Mère Pauline writes that I had better go to the convent some time next month, if I can get my things ready. I—I want you to let me fix a date.”
Her heart was beating so that she felt as though she must suffocate.
“I have already written to Mère Pauline, Frances, and she knows quite well that I do not think you old enough or strong enough or wise enough to take such a step as that, at any rate for the present.”
“When would you let me, then?”
“I don’t know, my child. When you’ve learnt to be less self-righteous and self-opinionated at home I shall think you better fitted to try and undertake a life of mortification and humility.”
Then Bertha suddenly relapsed into her normal tones of hearty kindness.
“My dear, I hate playing the heavy guardian and talking to you like this, but these people have worked you up into taking the whole thing au grand serieux, until one doesn’t know what other tone to adopt. Can’t you be content to trust me, Francie?”
“I do trust you,” said Frances miserably. “But I must do what I think right. It would be a sin not to.”
“My dear child, don’t talk such nonsense. Do you mean to say that you think we ought all to rush into convents, under pain of sin? How would the world go on, pray?”
Bertha laughed a little, but Frances answered her quite seriously.