“Even there I have failed,” said Priscilla sadly. “There is a girl at St. Benet’s who has a strange power over me. I love her. I have a very great love for her. She is not a happy girl, she is not a perfect girl, but I would do anything— anything in the wide world for her.” “And you would do anything for us, too?” “Oh, yes, yes.” “And, though you don’t think it, your love for us is stronger than your love for her. There is a freshness about the new love which fascinates you, but the old is the stronger. Keep both loves, my dear: both are of value. Now I must go out to visit poor Peters, who is ill, so I can see you home. Is there anything more you want to say to me?” “Oh, yes, Mr. Hayes, Aunt Raby is very ill.” “She is, Prissie.” “Does she know it?” “Yes.” “Ought I to be away from her now— is it right” “My dear, do you want to break her heart? She worked so hard to get this time at college for you. No, Prissie, don’t get that idea into your head. Aunt Raby is most anxious that you should have every advantage. She knows— she and I both know— that she cannot live more than a year or two longer, and her greatest hope is that you may be able to support your little sisters when she is gone. No, Prissie, whatever happens, you must on no account give up your life at St. Benet’s.” “Then please let me say something else. I must not go on with my classics.” “My dear child, you are managing to crush me with all kinds of queer, disappointing sayings to-night.” “Am I? But I mean what I say now. I love Greek better than anything almost in the world. But I know enough of it already for the mere purposes of rudimentary teaching. My German is faulty— my French not what it might he.” “Come, come, my dear; Peters is waiting to settle for the night. Can we not talk on our way down to the cottage?” Aunt Raby was fast asleep when Priscilla re-entered the little sitting-room. The girl knelt down by the slight, old figure, and, stooping, pressed a light kiss on the forehead. Light as it was it awoke the sleeper. “You are there still, child?” said Aunt Raby. “I dreamt you were away.” “Would you like me to stay with you, auntie?” “No, my dear; you help me upstairs and I’ll get into bed. You ought to be in your own bed, too, Prissie. Young creatures ought never to sit up late, and you have a journey before you to-morrow.” “Yes, but would you like me not to take the journey? I am strong, and could do all the work, and you might rest not only at night, but in the day. You might rest always, if I stayed here.” Aunt Raby was wide awake now, and her eyes were very bright. “Do you mean what you say, Priscilla?” she asked. “Yes, I do. You have the first right to me. If you want me, I’ll stay.” “You’ll give up that outlandish Greek, and all that babel of foreign tongues, and your fine friends, and your grand college, and you hopes of being a famous woman by and by? Do you mean this, Prissie, seriously?” “Yes, if you want me.”