The only one of my superintending companions with whom I
established anything like a familiar acquaintance was Mother
Martha. She had no outward attractions to recommend her; but she
was simple, good-humored, ready to gossip, and inquisitive to a
perfectly incredible degree. Her whole life had been passed in
the nunnery; she was thoroughly accustomed to her seclusion,
thoroughly content with the monotonous round of her occupations;
not at all anxious to see the world for herself; but, on the
other hand, insatiably curious to know all about it from others.
There was no question connected with myself, my wife, my
children, my friends, my profession, my income, my travels, my
favorite amusements, and even my favorite sins, which a woman
could ask a man, that Mother Martha did not, in the smallest and
softest of voices, ask of me. Though an intelligent,
well-informed person in all that related to her own special
vocation, she was a perfect child in everything else. I
constantly caught myself talking to her, just as I should have
talked at home to one of my own little girls.
I hope no one will think that, in expressing myself thus, I am
writing disparagingly of the poor nun. On two accounts, I shall
always feel compassionately and gratefully toward Mother Martha.
She was the only person in the convent who seemed sincerely
anxious to make her presence in the parlor as agreeable to me as
possible; and she good-humoredly told me the story which it is my
object in these pages to introduce to the reader.
Pages:
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319