Even Cousin Bertie had written a very kind letter which Frances had received that morning, bidding God bless her in the way that she had chosen, and only asking her to remember that there was always a home waiting for her at Porthlew, and a welcome when, or if ever, she should come back there.
Hazel had written too, a very affectionate letter, and asked if she might send Frances anything for a present, whatever would be nicest and most useful, and would Frances always remember that good people were needed in the world dreadfully badly, and if she ever came out of the convent, and wanted somewhere to go to, she must come straight to Hazel, who would always love to have her.
They all wrote of her leaving the convent! Only Rosamund, the novice reflected, never said, or seemed to think, that Frances had mistaken her vocation.
Kneeling for an instant at the little shrine that stood outside the door of the dormitory, Frances thanked God for Rosamund, and prayed fervently that the step she was about to take that day might be blessed for them both.
“And some day—together again,” she ended on a stifled sob.
Then she went quietly into the dormitory.
XXIII
FRANCES could not help feeling that it was as well that her Retreat had officially ended that morning after the first Mass, for no further opportunity was vouchsafed her for reflection.
A French lay-sister, to whom the office was always entrusted, came to dress her in the wedding-dress of cheap white satin, convent-made, and long white lace veil.
She found the little novice with all her soft straight brown hair hanging over her shoulders.