"To be sure," I answered, and then I considered a little.
"Yes, I do think I have ground for my confidence, though I am not quite sure I can explain it. You know, Amice, the Psalms are inspired—a part of the word of God, and therefore, surely, their promises are to be taken as true. The Psalm says, 'Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, mercy embraceth him on every side.' Now, I know my dear mother did put her trust in the Lord, if woman ever did in this world, and, therefore, I am at ease for her, though she died without the Sacraments, which was not her fault."
"You used your night watch to good purpose, if you thought out all this," said Amice.
"I did not think it out—it came to me," said I.
"Came to you—how?" asked Amice.
"I can't tell you," I answered, I am afraid, a little impatiently. "I am not used to taking all my thoughts and feelings to pieces, as you do. I only know that it seemed to come to me from outside my own mind—to be breathed into my heart, as somebody might whisper in my ear."
"It is very lovely," said Amice, with a sigh. "It is like some of the visions of the Saints. I think, Rosamond, you will be a Saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine."
"I don't believe it," said I. "It is a great deal more in your way than mine."
We were busy in the garden while we were talking, gathering rosemary and violets for Mother Gertrude to distil. Amice had her lap full of rosemary, and she sat down and began pulling it into little bits.
"Rosamond," said she, presently, looking about her, and speaking in a low tone, "do you really like the notion of being a nun?"