“You know that in September, I went ‘into retreat’ for four days at Thunders Abbey. I was sure I’d hate it—and so I did in a way—but when I’d got there I saw at once that it was going to be more important than I’d thought. At first I thought it was just a dodge of Father Luce’s for making me uncomfortable—you know he looks upon me as a luxury-loving young aristocrat, in need of constant mortification. I don’t know what it was exactly that made me change—it was partly, I think, the silence, and partly, I know, the Divine Office. At the end of my visit I knew that Office as the great work of prayer, and Thunders Abbey as just part of that heart of prayer which keeps the world alive. And, dear, I knew that my place was in that heart. I can’t describe to you exactly what I felt—and I wouldn’t if I could. But you’re a Catholic, so you won’t think I’m talking nonsense when I say that I feel I belong there, or, in plainer language, that I have a vocation. You don’t believe that vocations come only to priggish maidens and pious youth, but much more often to ordinary healthy, outdoor people like you and me. Of course I know that even you will think (as Father Luce and the Father Superior have thought) that my vocation may possibly be another name for disappointment in love. I’ve thought it myself, but I don’t believe it. Anyhow it’s at last been settled that I’m going to be allowed to try. As soon as I’ve finished at Gillingham’s I shall go. You know the Community, of course. It’s an order for work among the poor, and has houses in London, Birmingham and Leeds. At Thunders Abbey there’s a big farm for drunkards, epileptics, idiots, and other pleasant company. I’d be useful there, as they’ve just started motor traction, but I don’t know where they’ll send me. Of course I may come out again; but I don’t think so. One knows a sure thing, Stella, and I never felt so sure about anything as about this—and it’s all the more convincing, because I went in without a thought of it. I expect you will be tremendously surprised, but I know you won’t write trying to dissuade me, and telling me all the good I could do outside by letting out taxis for hire and things like that. You dear! I feel I owe everything to you—including this new thing which is so joyful and so terrifying. For I’m frightened a bit—I’m not just going in because I like it—I don’t know if I do. And yet I’m happy.