"Well, I do," I answered, frankly. "Of course, I was sorry to leave my old friends, especially as they were in so much trouble, but a convent life was never my choice for myself nor mine uncle's for me."
"You had no real vocation, then?"
"No, I think not; and indeed, I hardly know what it means," I answered.
"I had!" said Philippa, proudly. "I have always had a vocation, ever since I was a child, but my father never would consent, or Master Davis either. I have money enough, however, and when I am twenty-two it will be all mine own. Then I can do as I like, and I shall go into a religious house directly."
"From the way things are going there are not like to be many religious houses by that time," said I.
"There will be convents enough abroad if not here," said Philippa. "Besides, things may change here."
"That is true," said I; "but from what I have seen I should think that one might be very happy in this house."
"Happiness is not my object!" answered Philippa. "What I seek is a life of self-denial."
"And so you mean to take your own way the moment it is in your power!" I thought, but I did not say it.
At that moment, Mistress Davis returned to the room, bringing with her a pretty, pleasant-looking lady whom she presented to me as her married daughter, Mistress Margaret Hall, come to spend the day at home. I took a fancy to her directly, and we were soon chatting pleasantly together. She had some lace work in hand with which she had got into difficulty, and I was able to set her right, having served my apprenticeship to that kind of work under Mother Joanna. The convent schools did have that advantage—they taught girls to use their fingers. Mistress Hall looked over with great interest while I picked out and untwisted, showing her where she had gone wrong.