“Pure truth, Joyce,” saith Father. “Yet, for that of monks, in good sooth I do look to see them back, only under other guise. Monachism is human nature: and human nature will out. If he make not way at one door, trust him to creep forth of an other.”
“But, Aubrey, the Church is reformed. There is no room for monks and nuns, and such rubbish,” saith Aunt Joyce.
“The Church is reformed,—ay,” saith he: “but human nature is not. That shall not be until we see the King in His beauty,—whether by our going to Him in death, or by His coming to us in the clouds of heaven.”
“Dear heart, man!—be not alway on the watch for black clouds,” quoth she. “As well turn Mennonite at once.”
“Well, ‘sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’” Father makes answer: “and so far thou art right, Joyce. Yet it is well we should remember, at times, that we be not yet in Heaven.”
“‘At times!’” quoth Aunt Joyce, with a laugh. “What a blessed life must be thine, if those that be about thee suffer thee to forget the same save ‘at times’! I never made that blunder yet, I can tell thee.”
And so she and I away, and left all laughing.
Selwick Hall, October ye xxii.
This afternoon come Hal and Anstace, with their childre. Milly soon carried off the childre, for she is a very child herself, and can lake (play) with childre a deal better than I: and Hal went (said he) to seek Father, with whom I found him an hour later in the great chamber, and both right deep in public matter, whereof I do love to hear them talk at times, but Milly and Edith be no wise compatient (the lost adjective of compassion) therewith. Anstace came with me to our chamber, and said she had list for a good chat.
“Whereof be we to chat?” said I, something laughing.