"So far as we are concerned," continued my father, after a little silence, "my wife and I would gladly keep you at home. You have ever shown yourself a dutiful and good child to us, as well as to—her that is gone. But we put no force upon your inclinations, either way. You must decide for yourself."
"But not this minute, or this hour, dear heart," said madam, who had hitherto been silent. "Take time, pray, ask counsel of God and thine own heart, and then decide. Be sure that we shall be only too glad to keep you with us as long as we can."
"Only this much I must say, Rosamond," added my father, "I do believe if we could know thy mother's mind now, she would bid thee remain at home. But go now and do as madam hath said—pray—read the Gospel, and then decide. Bless thee, my dear one; and truly I believe thou wilt be blessed, for better maid never lived."
I cannot but write these words, they are so precious, coming from my father, who seldom puts his deeper feelings into words. I rose from my knees and went to mine own chamber, to the oratory where my mother spent so much time in prayer, and there I remained many hours—Madam, with her usual kind care, giving orders that I should not be disturbed.
For a while my mind was so tossed and tumbled that I could see nothing. I could not even pray, and at last took refuge in repeating the Psalms, specially the hundred and nineteenth, which seemed full of petitions suitable to my state. By degrees my spirit grew calmer, and I was able to pour out my whole heart. I do not now pray to the Saints or to our Lady, because I can find in the whole of Scripture no warrant for doing so, but every encouragement to come at once to my Heavenly Father, through the merits and intercession of His Son.
Toward evening my mother came, bringing with her own hands a simple and dainty little repast, decked with fresh flowers, as her manner is. (She does love flowers above any woman I ever saw, and has brought from London and the East country many new kinds of roots and seeds, such as have never been seen in these parts.) She would have me eat and drink to keep up my strength; and though I felt no great inclination thereto, it behooved me to please her, when she had taken so much pains for me.
"And now, my dear one, let me give thee a little counsel!" said she. "Do not you remain shut up here, but go out and walk in the fresh cool evening, before the sun goes down, and then committing thyself and all thy cares to thy Heavenly Father, lie down to rest in peace. Be sure He will guide thee to a wise decision."
I had purposed to watch all night in the oratory, I told her.
She smiled.
"And will that clear your head, think you, sweetheart? Or will a fit of ague, such as any fatigue is sure to bring upon you, assist you in deciding wisely? See here what the Psalmist says!"