“It’s hard to go, Mother Fénelon, and I thought it would be easy. I thought, not being a Catholic, that so much of it wouldn’t matter. But it is hard. And I feel so afraid—and lost.”
“We keep you here in our hearts, dear—and you take us with you.” The old words, never tiresome, because always real.
“I know.”
“Is there anything especially bothering you, Cecily?”
“Yes,” said Cecily bravely, “the choice.”
“The choice?”
“You know. Of course I shan’t be a nun, but to marry—or not to marry.”
The nun did not smile. She had been cloistered in the convent many years and, perhaps because she had time to reflect upon them, was wise in the ways of the world. And she knew the reality of even the adolescent struggle.
“Cecily, dear, Father Aloysius called it your choice. It is yours. But only ultimately. Events, happenings which we cannot foresee but which come to us under the guidance of God, affect our choice in most matters. Do you see, dear—you can’t decide that now? You must wait and let events shape themselves—and only pray that your vision may be clear and your heart pure.”
A look of relief came over Cecily’s face. She nodded. But Mother Fénelon still held her hand.