“And there never will be,” cried Euphrosyne, very earnestly. “I assure you, I cannot bear the idea of it.”
“So I perceive, my dear. I am quite convinced, I assure you. Have you as great a dislike to being educated?”
“Almost, I am afraid. But I could get over that. I like reading very well, and learning things at my own time, and in my own way; but I feel rather old to begin to be under orders as to what I shall learn, and when and how; and yet rather young to be so grave and regular as the sisters are. I am fifteen, you know.”
“You are not aware, I see, how much we laugh when we are by ourselves, nor how we like to see girls of fifteen happy and gay. I think, too, that I may answer for the sisters not quarrelling with you about what you ought to learn. You will comply with the rules of the house as to hours; and your preceptresses will allow you, as far as possible, to follow your bent.”
“You are very kind, as you always are. But I think far less of all this than of what grandpapa is to do without me. Consider what long, weary days he will have! He has scarcely any acquaintance left in Cap; and he has been accustomed to do nothing without me. He will sit and cry all day—I know he will.”
And Euphrosyne’s tears began to overflow at the thought.
“It is a great honour, my child, to have been made such a blessing to an old man.”
“It was almost the only one he had left. Up to that terrible ninety-one—”
The abbess shuddered.
“You knew my mother and sisters?”