But we young ones, shut in by the gray stone walls, were happily unconscious of the storms that raged without. Children are easily reconciled to any change that is not greatly for the worse, and I soon became as much at home as if I had always lived here. I must needs say that every one was kind to me, especially so when I was recovering. I used to have terrible fits of homesickness, which were not lessened by the anger which still dwelt in my heart against my uncle. These usually ended in a fit of crying and that in a chill, so it is no wonder that Mother Joanna (that was the name of the Mistress of the Novices) had a dread of them. So, at the last, she took to setting me tasks and work, and finding that I had a talent for music, she put Sister Cicely upon giving me lessons upon the lute and in singing, which lessons have since been of great use to me. At my first recovery from my sickness, as I have said, my mind was almost a blank; but by and by my memory came back and I began to recollect and compare things, and to ask questions. Mother Joanna liked me about her when she was busy. Her eyesight was not as good as it had been, and she found it convenient to have me thread her needles when she was sewing, and do other little offices for her. One day, she was preparing some work for the children (for we had a day-school in a little house near the gate, where the girls from the village learned to sew and spin and to say their prayers); one day, I say, when we were thus engaged, I ventured to ask: "Dear mother, did my uncle come to see me when I was sick?" "No, child, your uncle is gone abroad, as I understand, to Holland, about some matters of business—but your aunt sent to inquire for you twice." "Who came?" I inquired. "How do I know, child! You ask too many questions. It was an elderly serving man with a scar on his face." "Joseph Saunders," I said. "Do you know if my aunt and cousins were well?" "Yes, they are all well. I asked because I thought you would like to know." "Dear mother, you are very kind." "Well, I mean to be kind, and so I am going to talk plainly to you, child. You must give up all notion of going back to your uncle's house, for that will never be. My Lady Peckham has given you to this house—she having absolute control of you since Sir Edward's death—" "Is Sir Edward dead?" I asked, in dismay. "Yes, he died in Scotland. There, don't cry, my dear; I thought you knew it, or I would not have told you so suddenly. I know it is natural for you to grieve for him, but we must curb even natural affections when they stand in the way of our duty." But I could not help crying. Sir Edward had been uniformly kind to me, and I loved him dearly. The news of his death was a dreadful shock, and the end of it was, that I had another ague and was sick for several days.