The Foster-Sisters: A Story in the Days of Wesley and Whitfield

If one thought anything of omens (which I do not in general, though I confess I would rather not see the new moon through glass) I might think it a bad one that my first distinct recollection is of a fall. It happened in this wise: I was sitting on the edge of the great fountain basin, eating a bit of spice cake, and watching some vernons—so they call the little wild canaries in that part of the world—which were flying in and out of the great ivy on the north wall, where I suppose they had young ones. In my interest in the birds, I forgot that my perch was both narrow and slippery. I leaned backward, the better to obtain a view of the bird's nest, which I could but just see, and so doing I lost my balance, and down I went into the water.

Luckily for me, there was help at hand, for the basin was deep and I was small. Mother Prudentia was just coming for water, and pulled me out before I had time to scream more than once. If I had seen her so near, I should not have been sitting there, for the thing was strictly forbidden. But she pulled me out and carried me to the dormitory, where I was quickly undressed and well scolded at the same time, and popped into bed.

I spent the rest of the day dully enough, but a little consoled by the gift of a second piece of spice cake and the company of my doll, which the good mother's relenting heart allowed me, after I had sobbingly confessed that I was very sorry, and would never do so again. I think she would even have let me get up but for the fear of my taking cold and having consumption. Mother Prudentia was fully convinced that all English women died of consumption, sooner or later.

To this day, the smell of a bit of fresh spice cake will bring that whole scene before my eyes. I can see the arched cloisters surrounding the paved court, with the old fountain well in the centre. I can look through the great pointed doorway and see a second court, with a tall cross in the centre surrounded by low grassy mounds, where generation after generation of the sisters rested in peace. I can smell the odor of the roses which grew so luxuriantly in the corner by the little postern door which led into the church, and the wild lavender and the rosemary, which had sprung up in those places—alas, very many—where the marble pavement had gone to decay, or the cloister walls and arches were in ruins. I can feel the very brooding, yet not stifling heat of the summer day in June, and breathe the air smelling not only of the aromatic herbs which so abound in that country, but also of the fresh breath of the sea.