Even Frances seemed to have recaptured some of the characteristic serenity that she had only recently lost, and she and Rosamund spent the afternoon together amongst the mellow reds and yellows of the autumn garden, happy in the midst of trivial, familiar things. As they turned indoors as dusk was falling, Frances spoke.
“Rosamund, I had meant not to tell you—but after all, I couldn’t—and besides, you always know.... You know what Father Anselm said I ought to do——?”
A pang, that held far more of recognition in it than of surprise, went through Rosamund.
“Go to the convent in spite of them?”
“Yes. I’m going to do it while Cousin Bertie is away.”
“Francie! Is it quite fair?”
“I don’t know,” said Frances calmly. “I haven’t told Father Anselm or Mère Pauline or any of them, because it would be such a dreadful responsibility for them to know—and, besides, they might not think it right to advise me to run away from home. But it’s the only way I shall ever have the courage to do it.”
Rosamund felt a sense of utter impotence invading her as she listened to the childish voice, made resolutely steady and matter-of-fact.
“But Cousin Bertie will be back the day after to-morrow.”
“I know. So I’m going to-morrow.”