“The mother is the parent naturally most missed,” said the abbess, supposing she was reading her pupil’s mind. “Where there is no mother by a young girl’s side, and no brothers and sisters to serve, the fancy and the heart are apt to fix prematurely on some object—too likely, in that case, to be one which will deceive and fail. But, my dear, such a young girl owes duty to herself, if God has seen fit to make her solitary in the world.”
“One cannot say solitary,” interposed Euphrosyne, “or without duties.”
“You are right, my love. No one is, indeed, solitary in life, (blessed be God!) nor without duties. As I was going to say, such a young girl’s business is to apply herself diligently to her education, during the years usually devoted to instruction. This is the work appointed to her youth. If, while her mind is yet ignorant, her judgment inexperienced, and her tastes actually unformed, she indulges any affection or fancy which makes her studies tedious, her companions dull, and her mind and spirits listless, she has fallen into a fearful snare.”
“How long then would you have a girl’s education go on? And if her lover be very particularly wise and learned, do not you think she may learn more from him than in any other way? And if she be not dull and listless, but very happy—”
“Every girl,” interrupted the abbess, with a grave smile, “thinks her lover the wisest man in the world: and no girl in love would exchange her dreams for the gayest activity of the fancy-free.”
“Well, but, as to the age,” persisted Euphrosyne; “how soon—”
“That depends upon circumstances, my dear. But in all cases, I consider sixteen too early.”
“Sixteen! Yes. But nineteen—or, one may say, twenty. Twenty, next month but one.”
“My dear,” said the abbess, stopping short, “you do not mean to say—”
“Indeed, madam,” said Euphrosyne, very earnestly, “Afra will be twenty in two months. I know her ago to a day, and—”