“Of course I will help you. What is wrong? Speak to me fully.” “Aunt Raby fainted in the hayfield yesterday.” “Indeed? It was a warm day; I am truly concerned. Would she like to see me? Is she better to-day?” “She is quite well to-day— quite well for the time.” “My dear Priscilla, what a tragic face! Your Aunt Raby is not the first woman who has fainted and got out of her faint again and been none the worse.” “That is just the point, Mr. Hayes. Aunt Raby has got out of her faint, but she _is_ the worse.” Mr. Hayes looked hard into his pupil’s face. There was no beauty in it. The mouth was wide, the complexion dull, the features irregular. Even her eyes— and perhaps they were Prissie’s best point— were neither large nor dark; but an expression now filled those eyes and lingered round that mouth which made the old rector feel solemn. He took one of the girl’s thin unformed hands between his own. “My dear child,” he said, “something weighs on your mind. Tell your old friend— your almost father— all that is in your heart.” Thus begged to make a confidence, Priscilla did tell a commonplace, and yet tragic, story. Aunt Raby was affected with an incurable illness. It would not kill her soon; she might live for years, but every year she would grow a little weaker and a little less capable of toil. As long as she lived the little farm belonged to her, but whenever she died it would pass to a distant cousin. Whenever Aunt Raby died, Priscilla and her three sisters would be penniless. “So I have come to you,” continued Prissie, “to say that I must take steps at once to enable me to earn money. I must support Hattie and Rose and Katie whenever Aunt Raby goes. I must earn money as soon as it is possible for a girl to do so, and I must stop dreaming and thinking of nothing but books, for perhaps books and I will have little to say to each other in future.” “That would be sad,” replied Mr. Hayes, “for that would be taking a directly opposite direction to the path which Providence clearly intends you to walk in.” Priscilla raised her eyes and looked earnestly at the old rector. Then, clasping her hands tightly together, she said with suppressed passion: “Why do you encourage me to be selfish, Mr. Hayes?” “I will not,” he replied, answering her look; “I will listen patiently to all you have to say. How do you propose to earn bread for yourself and your sisters?” “I thought of dressmaking.” “Um! Did you— make— the gown you have on?” “Yes,” replied Priscilla, looking down at her ungainly homespun garment. The rector rose to his feet and smiled in the most sweet and benevolent way. “I am no judge of such matters,” he said, “and I may be wrong. But my impression is that the style and cut of that dress would scarcely have a large demand in fashionable quarters.” “Oh, sir!” Prissie blushed all over. “You know I said I should have to learn.”