"And my father says his house is a fine one—even finer than ours in London," said Avice; "but I know I shall never like it as well."
"But tell me all about it!" said I. "Is Sambo going?"
"Yes, and Anne the launder, and Joseph Saunders, but no one else. Master Davis, the silk mercer, hath hired our house, and he loves flowers as well as my father, so the garden will be cared for."
"I should not think Joseph would go—he is so old!"
"He hath been there with my nephew and knows the ways and the language; so he will be a help in getting settled!" said Aunt Joyce, who seemed to feel the change far more than the girls, as was indeed natural. "But, after all, life is short, and Paradise is as near to Antwerp as to London. That is the great comfort. But Loveday, now that we are alone together, I must give you your uncle's charge and his letter."
The letter was short, but earnest. My uncle bade me make myself contented so far as I could, but he charged me to remember that I was not to be professed till I was twenty-one.
"Should any thing happen to make you need a home—as is not impossible, if I read the signs of the times aright," so the letter proceeded, "do you go to my old friend, Master Davis, the silk mercer, who will always know where I am, and how to send to me. His wife is a good woman, and they will gladly give you a home."
My uncle concluded by once more asking my forgiveness for his hasty action, and most solemnly gave me his blessing.
My aunt bade me give her back the letter, and I did so, however reluctantly, knowing that it would not be well to have it found with me. In a convent, nothing is one's own, and one is all the time watched.
When we had seen the garden and orchard, the church and such other parts of the domain as it was proper to show to strangers, we were called into the refectory where an elegant little repast was provided, of which I was allowed to partake with them. The time for parting came all too soon, for the ride to town was not a short one, and though the days were now at the longest, the party could not more than reach home before dark.
I will not dwell on that sorrowful parting. Mother Joanna led me away, and when I had wept awhile, she began to quiet me. She said what was true, that I had been greatly indulged in being allowed such free intercourse with my friends, and that I must show my gratitude by striving to restrain my grief so as not to make myself ill. She said a good deal, too, in her sweet, gentle way, of submitting our wills to the will of Heaven, because that will is sure to be best for us, since our heavenly Father seeing the end from the beginning, and having, as it were, our whole lives spread out before him, can judge far better than we can. (I began to observe, about this time, that while the prioress and the other ladies invoked saints by the gross on all occasions, the mother assistant and Mother Joanna rarely or never did so.) The dear mother understood me well. I saw the reasonableness of what she urged, and made a great effort to control my feelings, and though my pillow was wet with tears for that, and more than one night afterward, I took care that my grief should be troublesome to no one.