Priscilla mounted the rough road which led to the vicarage, opened the white gate, walked up the gravel path and entered the little porch. Her knock was answered by the vicar himself. He drew her into the house with an affectionate word of welcome, and soon she was sitting by his study fire, with hat and jacket removed. In the vicar’s eyes Priscilla was not at all a plain girl. He liked the rugged power which her face displayed; he admired the sensible lines of her mouth, and he prophesied great things from that brow, so calm, so broad, so full. Mr. Hayes had but a small respect for the roses and lilies of mere beauty. Mind was always more to him than matter. Some of the girls at St. Benet’s, who thought very little of poor Priscilla, would have felt no small surprise had they known the high regard and even admiration this good man felt for her. “I am glad you have called, Prissie,” he said. “I was disappointed in not seeing you to-day. Well, my dear, do as well in the coming term as you did in the past. You have my best wishes.” “Thank you,” said Prissie. “You are happy in your new life, are you not, my dear child?” “I am interested,” said Priscilla in a low voice. Her eyes rested on her shabby dress as she spoke. She laid one hand over the other. She seemed to be weighing her words. “I am interested; sometimes I am absorbed. My new life fills my heart; it crowds into all my thoughts. I have no room for Aunt Raby— no room for my little sisters. Everything is new to me— everything fresh and broad. There are some trials, of course, and some unpleasantness; but, oh, the difference between here and there! Here it is so narrow, there one cannot help getting enlightenment, daily and hourly.” “Yes,” said Mr. Hayes when Priscilla paused, “I expected you to say something of this kind. I knew you could not but feel the immense, the immeasurable change. But why do you speak in that complaining voice, Priscilla?” Prissies’ eyes were raised to his. “Because Aunt Raby is ill, and it is wicked of me to forget her. It is mean and cowardly. I hate myself for it.” Mr. Hayes looked puzzled for a moment. Then his face cleared. “My dear Prissie,” he said, “I always knew there were depths of morbidness in you, but I did not suppose that you would sound them so quickly. If you are to grow up to be a wise and useful and helpful woman by and by, you must check this intense self-examination. Your feelings are the natural feelings of a girl who has entered upon a very charming life. You are meant to lead that life for the present; you are meant to do your duty in it. Don’t worry, my dear. Go back to St. Benet’s, and study well, and learn much, and gather plenty of experience for the future. If you fret about what cannot be helped, you will weaken your intellect and tire your heart. After all, Prissie, though you give much thought to St. Benet’s, and though its ways are delightful to you, your love is still with the old friends, is it not?”