The Grey Brethren
Some of the happiest remembrances of my childhood are of days spent
in a little Quaker colony on a high hill.
The walk was in itself a preparation, for the hill was long and steep
and at the mercy of the north-east wind; but at the top, sheltered by a
copse and a few tall trees, stood a small house, reached by a flagged
pathway skirting one side of a bright trim garden.
I, with my seven summers of lonely, delicate childhood, felt, when I
gently closed the gate behind me, that I shut myself into Peace. The house
was always somewhat dark, and there were no domestic sounds. The two
old ladies, sisters, both born in the last century, sat in the cool, dim parlour,
netting or sewing. Rebecca was small, with a nut-cracker nose and chin;
Mary, tall and dignified, needed no velvet under the net cap. I can feel
now the touch of the cool dove-coloured silk against my cheek, as I sat on
the floor, watching the nimble fingers with the shuttle, and listened as
Mary read aloud a letter received that morning, describing a meeting of
the faithful and the \'moving of the Spirit\' among them. I had a mental
picture of the \'Holy Heavenly Dove,\' with its wings of silvery grey,
hovering over my dear old ladies; and I doubt not my vision was a true
one.