"No, uncle," I answered.
"They are our dear Lord's own words," said he, "and spoken for our comfort. Do not you forget them."
"I suppose Our Lady made Him say them!" I ventured to remark.
"No, dear child. Our Lord needs no one to make Him send us comfort and help, since He himself loves us, and died to redeem us. Never doubt his love, my child. That never fails those who seek him, and even though he leads them through dark and troubled waters—nay, even through the very fiery furnace—it is but to guide them to his rest at last."
I saw my aunt sigh at these words, as if they had some meaning more than met the ear. For my own part, they filled me with amazement. I had always been taught to think of our Lord as a harsh and severe judge, who relented toward us—when he did relent—only at the intercession, or rather commands, of Our Lady, his mother. It seemed very strange; but I was presently diverted from the consideration thereof by my uncle's next words.
"Did my Lady Peckham send me no letter by you, dear child?"
"Oh, yes, uncle!" I answered, remembering all at once the packet my lady had placed among my things, with a strict injunction to deliver it to Master Gabriel Corbet directly on my arrival. I ran up to my room, and finding the package safe and sound in my book of Hours, where it had been laid for safe keeping, I brought it down and put it into my uncle's hand. He cut the band of floss silk which confined it, and was soon engaged in its perusal. Seeing, I suppose, that I was watching his face, my aunt directed my attention to some pageant passing in the street. My eyes, however, soon stole back to my uncle's face, and I was startled to see the change and the look of grief which had come over it. Forgetting all decorum in my anxiety, I cried out:
"Oh, uncle, must I go to the convent? I will be so good if you will only let me stay here."
Katherine and Avice looked scared, and so was I when I bethought me of what I had done. My uncle, however, did not seem angry. On the contrary, he put out his hand and drew me toward him.
"Listen to me, Loveday, and you also, my children, and learn what it costs to nourish a grudge," said he. "When we were both young, my brother and I quarreled. No matter about what. I thought myself wholly the injured party, and, despite all our good mother's efforts, I would not be reconciled. So my brother, who was the younger of us two, after vainly trying to bring me to a better mind, betook himself with his young wife to a little estate in the west country, which had been left him by a kinsman."