“How snug you are here,” said Prissie, her eyes brightening and a pink color mounting into her cheeks. She was glad that Maggie was alone; she felt more at ease with her than with any one, but the next moment she said with a look of apparent regret: “I thought Miss Banister was in your room?” “No; Nancy has gone to her own room at the end of the corridor to do some work for an hour. She will come back to say good night. She always does. Are you sorry to have me by myself?” “Indeed I am not,” said Priscilla. The smile, which made her rather plain face attractive, crept slowly back to it. Maggie poured out a cup of cocoa and brought it to her. Then, drawing another chair forward, she seated herself in it, sipped her own cocoa and began to talk. Long afterward Priscilla remembered that talk. It was not what Maggie said, for her conversation in itself was not at all brilliant, but it was the sound of her rich, calm, rather lazy voice, the different lights which glanced and gleamed in her eyes, the dimples about her mouth, the attitude she put herself in. Maggie had a way of changing color, too, which added to her fascination. Sometimes the beautiful oval of her face would he almost ivory white, but then again a rosy cloud would well up and up the cheeks and even slightly suffuse the broad, low forehead. Her face was never long the same, never more than a moment in repose; eyes, mouth, brow, even the very waves of her hair seemed to Priscilla, this first night as she sat by her hearth, to be all speech. The girls grew cozy and confidential together. Priscilla told Maggie about her home, a little also about her past history and her motive in coming to St. Benet’s. Maggie sympathized with all the expression she was capable of. At last Priscilla bade her new friend good night, and, rising from her luxurious chair, prepared to go back to her own room. She had just reached the door of Maggie’s room, and was about to turn the handle, when a sudden thought arrested her. She came back a few steps. “May I ask you a question?” she said. “Certainly,” replied Miss Oliphant. “Who is the girl who used to live in my room? Annabel Lee, the other girls call her. Who is she? What is there remarkable about her?” To Priscilla’s astonishment, Maggie started a step forward, her eyes blazed with an expression which was half frightened— half angry. She interlocked one soft hand inside the other, her face grew white, hard and strained. “You must not ask me about Annabel Lee,” she said in a whisper, “for I— I can tell you nothing about her. I can _never_ tell you about her— never.” Then she rushed to her sofa-bed, flung herself upon it face downward, and burst into queer, silent, distressful tears. Some one touched Priscilla softly an her shoulder. “Let me take you to your room, Miss Peel,” said Nancy Banister. “Don’t take any notice of Maggie; she will be all right by and by.” Nancy took Priscilla’s hand and walked with her across the corridor.