“No, please don’t. That’s not why I’m glad to see you. It’s for something quite, quite different. I want to say something to you, and it’s most important. Can’t we just keep back a little from the others? I don’t want Maggie to hear.” Now why were Miss Oliphant’s ears so sharp that afternoon? Why, even in the midst of her gay chatter to Constance, did she hear every word of Priscilla’s queer, garbled speech? And why did astonishment and even anger steal into her heart? What she did, however, was to gratify Prissie immensely by hurrying on with her companion, so that she and Hammond were left comfortably in the background. “I don’t quite know what you mean,” he said stiffly. “What can you possibly have of importance to say to me?” “I don’t want Maggie to hear,” repeated Prissie in her earnest voice. She knew far too little of the world to be in the least alarmed at Hammond’s stately tones. “What I want to say is about Maggie, and yet it isn’t.” “About Miss Oliphant?” “Oh, yes, but she’s Maggie to me. She’s the dearest, the best— there’s no one like her, no one. I didn’t understand her at first, but now I know how noble she is. I had no idea until I knew Maggie that a person could have faults and yet be noble. It’s a new sort of experience to me.” Prissie’s eyes, in which even in her worst moments there always sat the soul of a far-reaching sort of intelligence, were shining now through tears. Hammond saw the tears, and the lovely expression in the eyes, and said to himself: “Good heavens, could I ever have regarded that dear child as plain?” Aloud he said in a softened voice, “I’m awfully obliged to you for saying these sorts of things of Miss— Miss Oliphant, but you must know, at least you must guess, that I— I have thought them for myself long, long ago.” “Yes, of course, I know that. But have you much faith? Do you keep to what you believe?” “This is a most extraordinary girl!” murmured Hammond. Then he said aloud, “I fail to understand you.” They had now nearly reached the Marshalls’ door. The other two were waiting for them. “It’s this,” said Prissie, clasping her hands hard and speaking in her most emphatic and distressful way. “There are unkind things being said of Maggie, and there’s one girl who is horrid to her— horrid! I want you not to believe a word that girl says.” “What girl do you mean?” “You were walking with her just now.” “Really, Miss Peel, you are the most extraordinary—” But Maggie Oliphant’s clear, sweet voice interrupted them. “Had we not better come into the house?” she said. “The door has been open for quite half a minute.” Poor Prissie rushed in first, covered with shame; Miss Field hastened after, to bear her company; and Hammond and Maggie brought up the rear. CHAPTER XX A PAINTER