Oh, how thankful I felt to Mother Gaillarde for coming in just then! She said no more at that time; but at night she came to my cell.
“Sister Annora,” said she, “you must not let those saucy girls ride rough-shod over you. You should let them see you mean it.”
“But,” said I, “I am afraid I don’t mean it.”
Mother Gaillarde laughed. “Then make haste and do,” said she. “You’ll have a bear-garden in the work-room if you don’t pull your curb a little tighter. You may always rely on Sister Ismania, Sister Isabel, and Sister Margaret to uphold your authority. It is those silly young things that have to be kept in order. I wish you joy of your new post: it is not all flowers and music, I can tell you.”
“Oh dear, I feel so unfit for it!” I sighed.
Mother Gaillarde smiled. “Sister, I am a bad hand at paying compliments,” she said. “But one thing I will say—you are the fittest of us all for the office, if you will only stand firm. Give your orders promptly, and stick to them. Pax tibi!”
I have put Mother Gaillarde’s advice into action—or rather, I have tried to put it—and have brought a storm on my head. Oh dear, why cannot folks do right without all this trouble?
Sisters Amie and Catherine began to cast black looks at one another yesterday evening in the work-room, and when recreation-time came the looks blossomed into words. I told them both to be silent at once. This morning I was sent for by my Lady, who said that she had not expected me to prove a tyrant. I do not think tyrants feel their hearts go pitter-patter, as mine did, both last night and this morning. Of course I knelt and kissed her hand, and said how sorry I was to have displeased her.
“But, indeed, my Lady,” said I, “I spoke as I did because I was afraid I had not been sufficiently firm before.”
“Oh, I dare say it was all right,” said my Lady, closing her eyes, as if she felt worried with the whole affair. “Only Sister Ada thought—I think somebody spoke to her—do as you think best, Sister. I dare say it will all come right.”