"There was another girl in the school, and she was wonderfully clever. I must not tell you her name. _She_ managed the thing. She managed that the girl who wanted to leave the school should get the prize for literature, and that I should stay for a year longer at Mrs Lyttelton's." "But how? How _could_ she do it?" "She was so marvellously clever that she did do it--of course with my connivance." "Oh, with your connivance. How?" "Well, you see, I could write better essays than most girls in the school, and--and--it was arranged, and--and I consented to give up my essay to the girl who wanted to go, and to allow her to put her signature to it, and I took her essay and put my signature to hers. So she got the first prize for literature and left the school, and I stayed on, my reward being that my fees were to be paid for the ensuing year. That is the wicked thing I have done, and it has sunk into my heart and has made life unendurable." "Thank you; thank you very much," said Mr Manchuri. Priscilla bowed her head. The old man started up and began to pace up and down the room. After a time he went up to the girl, just touched her on her bowed head, and said very gently: "We will judge this thing, if you please, in the presence of my daughter Esther. Come with me now to her room; you shall see her. The portrait of her is so good that you will almost feel that you are looking at her living self." Priscilla rose tremblingly. She was weak and exhausted in every limb, but it seemed to her that a powerful hand was drawing her forward, and that she had very little will to resist. Mr Manchuri took the girl up to a room on the first floor. It was a beautifully large room, but scantily furnished. He lit some candles that had been previously arranged in front of a large picture which stood on an easel. This picture had been painted by one of the great portrait-painters of thirty years ago. It was a most speaking likeness, and Priscilla, when first she saw it, started, turned very white, and clasped Mr Manchuri's hand. "Why, it is I!" she said; "it is I! I have seen myself like--like that in the glass." Mr Manchuri drew a deep breath of relief. "Didn't I know it?" he said. "Didn't I say that you were like her? And see--she smiles at you.--You forgive Priscilla, don't you, Esther? Smile at her again, Esther, if you forgive her." The smile on the young face of the girl who had so long been dead seemed to become more pronounced, more sweet, more radiant.