“Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I forgot— I really did! There, you must try and think it was any room. What she did was all the same. Well, those girls had been twitting her. I expect she’s had a nice fortnight of it! She turned very white, and at last her blood was up, and she just gave it to them. She opened her little trunk. I really could have cried. It was such a poor, pathetic sort of receptacle to be capable of holding all one’s worldly goods, and she showed it to them— empty! ‘You see,’ she said, ‘that I have no pictures nor ornaments here!’ Then she turned the contents of her purse into her hand. I think, Maggie, she had about thirty shillings in the world, and she asked Lucy Marsh to count her money, and inquired how many things she thought it would purchase at Spilman’s. Then, Maggie, Priscilla turned on them. Oh, she did not look plain then, nor awkward either. Her eyes had such a splendid good, brave sort of light in them. And she said she had come here to work, and she meant to work, and her room must stay bare, for she had no money to make it anything else. ‘But,’ she said, ‘I am not afraid of you, but I _am_ afraid of hurting those’— whoever ‘those’ are— ‘those’— oh, with such a ring on the word— ‘who have sent me here!’ “After that the two girls skedaddled; they had had enough of her, and I expect, Maggie, your little Puritan Prissie will be left in peace in the future.” “Don’t call her my little Puritan,” said Maggie. “I have nothing to say to her.” Maggie was leaning back again in her chair now; her face was still pale and her soft eyes looked troubled. “I wish you wouldn’t tell me heroic stories, Nancy,” she remarked after a pause. “They make me feel so uncomfortable. If Priscilla Peel is going to be turned into a sort of heroine, she’ll be much more unbearable than in her former character.” “Oh, Maggie, I wish you wouldn’t talk in that reckless way nor pretend that you hate goodness. You know you adore it— you know you do! You know you are far and away the most lovable and bewitching, and the— the very best girl at St. Benet’s.” “No, dear little Nance, you are quite mistaken. Perhaps I’m bewitching— I suppose to a certain extent I am, for people always tell me so— but I’m _not_ lovable and I’m _not_ good. There, my dear, do let us turn from that uninteresting person— Maggie Oliphant. And so, Nancy, you are going to worship Priscilla Peel in future?” “Oh, dear no! that’s not my way. But I’m going to respect her very much. I think we have both rather shunned her lately, and I _did_ feel sure at first that you meant to be very kind to her, Maggie.” Miss Oliphant yawned. It was her way to get over emotion very quickly. A moment before her face had been all eloquent with feeling; now its expression was distinctly bored, and her lazy eyes were not even open to their full extent.