"Well, a good deal of embroidery," said I, considering. "She worked that superb altar cloth, and those copes that we use still on grand occasions, and she has made hundreds of pounds of sweetmeats, and gallons on gallons of cordials."
"And the sweetmeats are eaten, and the cordials drank, and in a few years the embroidery—what remains of it—will be rags and dust! Old Dame Lee in the village has ten sons, and I know not how many grandsons and daughters, all good and useful folk."
"And Roger Smith has a dozen children, each one more useless and idle than the other," said I.
"I can't endure the thought of such a life," continued Amice. "It sickens me—it frightens me. I would not be a religious unless I could be a great saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine.'
"Why don't you, then?" I asked.
She looked strangely at me, methought, but made no reply, and Mother Gertrude calling us, we talked no more at that time. But I have been considering the matter, and I can't but think Amice was wrong. I have seen more of home life than she, and I know that of very necessity a great part of any woman's life—yea, and of almost any man's—must needs be spent in doing the same things over and over again; in making garments to be worn out, and preparing food to be eaten, and hushing children, and ordering the household. All these things have to be done, or there would be no such thing as family life—nay, there could be no convent life—and so long as they are necessary, I think there must be some way of hallowing them and making them acceptable offerings to Heaven, as well as prayers, and watching, and penance. I mean to ask Mother Gertrude.
[CHAPTER V.]
Eve of St. John, May 5th.
FATHER FABIAN has set me to work, as he promised, and I like my task very much. I am translating into English the work of a German monk named Thomas à Kempis. The piece is called, "The Imitation of Christ," and is, of course, of a religious character, and is so good, so spiritual, and yet so plain in its teaching, as I think, nothing could be better, unless it were the Holy Gospel itself. There is a great deal of it, and I go on but slowly, for I am desirous of doing my very best therein; and besides I am often impelled to stop and meditate on what I am writing. Besides this, Mother Superior has made me librarian, and I am to keep all the books in order—no very hard task, methinks, when nobody ever touches them but Amice and myself.