The little sisters were in bed and asleep and Aunt Raby lay on the sofa. Prissie was accustomed to her face now, so she did not turn it away from the light. The white lips, the chalky gray tint under the eyes, the deep furrows round the sunken temples were all familiar to the younger “Miss Peel.” She had fitted once more into the old sordid life. She saw Hattie in her slipshod feet and Katie and Rose in their thin winter jackets, which did not half keep out the cold. She saw and partook of the scanty meals and tried to keep warm by the wretched fires. Once more she was part and parcel of the household. The children were so accustomed to her that they forgot she was going away again. To-night, however, the fact was brought back to her. Katie cried when she saw the packed trunk. Hattie pouted and flopped herself about and became unmanageable. Rose put on her most discontented manner and voice, and finding that Prissie had earned no money during the past term, gave utterance to skeptical thoughts. “Prissie just went away to have a good time, and she never meant to earn money, and she forgot all about them,” grumbled the naughty little girl. Hattie came up and pummeled Rose for her bad words. Katie cried afresh, and altogether the scene was most dismal. Now, however, it was over. The children were in the land of happy dreams. They were eating their Christmas dinner over again and looking with ecstasy at their tiny, tiny Christmas gifts and listening once more to Prissie, who had a low, sweet voice and who was singing to them the old and beloved words: “Peace and goodwill to men.” The children were happy in their dreams, and Prissie was standing by Aunt Raby’s side. “Why don’t you sit down, child? You have done nothing but fidget, fidget for the last half-hour.” “I want to go out, Aunt Raby.” “To go out? Sakes! what for? And on such a night, too!” “I want to see Mr. Hayes.” “Prissie, I think you have got a bee in your bonnet. You’ll be lost in this mist.” “No, I won’t. I missed Mr. Hayes to-day when he called, and I must see him before I go back to St. Benet’s. I have a question or two to ask him, and I know every step of the way. Let me go, auntie, please, do!” “You always were a wilful girl, Priscilla, and I think that college has made you more obstinate than ever. I suppose the half-mannish ways of all those girls tell upon you. There, if you must go— do. I’m in no mood for arguing. I’ll have a bit of a sleep while you are out: the muggy weather always makes me so drowsy.” Aunt Raby uttered a very weary yawn and turned her face from the light. Priscilla stepped into the hall, put on her waterproof and oldest hat and went out. She knew her way well to the little vicarage, built of gray stone and lying something like a small, daring fly against the brow of the hill. The little house looked as if any storm must detach it from its resting-place, but to-night there was no wind, only clinging mist and damp and thick fog.