A Sweet Girl Graduate. Meade L. T.

hungry is Hattie.”

      Aunt Raby looked up at the pale face, for Prissie was taller than her aunt even then, and said in a shocked voice —

      “Good gracious, child! do you think I’d stint one of you? You ought all to be hearty, and I hope you will be. No, no, it isn’t that, Prissie, but there’ll be no luxuries, so don’t you expect them.”

      “I don’t want them,” answered Priscilla.

      The children all went to Devonshire, and Aunt Raby toiled, as perhaps no woman had ever toiled before, to put bread into their mouths. Katie had a fever, which made her pale and thin, and took away that look of robustness which had characterised the little Yorkshire maiden. Nobody thought about the children’s education, and they might have grown up without any were it not for Priscilla, who taught them what she knew herself. Nobody thought Priscilla clever; she had no brilliance about her in any way, but she had a great gift for acquiring knowledge. Wherever she went she picked up a fresh fact, or a fresh fancy, or a new idea, and these she turned over and over in her active, strong, young brain, until she assimilated them, and made them part of herself.

      Amongst the few things that had been saved from her early home there was a box of her father’s old books, and as these comprised several of the early poets and essayists, she might have gone farther and fared worse.

      One day the old clergyman who lived at a small vicarage near called to see Miss Peel. He discovered Priscilla deep over Carlyle’s “History of the French Revolution.” The young girl had become absorbed in the fascination of the wild and terrible tale. Some of the horror of it had got into her eyes as she raised them to return Mr Hayes’ courteous greeting. His attention was arrested by the look she gave him. He questioned her about her reading, and presently offered to help her. From this hour Priscilla made rapid progress. She was not taught in the ordinary fashion, but she was being really educated. Her life was full now; she knew nothing about the world, nothing about society. She had no ambitions, and she did not trouble herself to look very far ahead. The old classics which she studied from morning till night abundantly satisfied her really strong intellectual nature.

      Mr Hayes allowed her to talk with him, even to argue points with him. He always liked her to draw her own conclusions; he encouraged her really original ideas; he was proud of his pupil, and he grew fond of her. It was not Priscilla’s way to say a word about it, but she soon loved the old clergyman as if he were her father.

      Some time between her sixteenth and seventeenth birthday that awakening came which altered the whole course of her life. It was a summer’s day. Priscilla was seated in the old wainscotted parlour of the cottage, devouring a book lent to her by Mr Hayes on the origin of the Greek Drama, and occasionally bending to kiss little Katie, who sat curled up in her arms, when the two elder children rushed in with the information that Aunt Raby had suddenly lain flat down in the hayfield, and they thought she was asleep.

      Prissie tumbled her book in one direction, and Katie in the other. In a moment she was kneeling by Miss Peel’s side.

      “What is it, Aunt Raby?” she asked, tenderly. “Are you ill?”

      The tired woman opened her eyes slowly.

      “I think I fainted, dear love,” she said. “Perhaps it was the heat of the sun.”

      Priscilla managed to get her back into the house. She grew better presently, and seemed something like herself, but that evening the aunt and niece had a long talk, and the next day Prissie went up to see Mr Hayes.

      “I am interested,” he said, when he saw her enter the room, “to see how you have construed that passage in Cicero, Priscilla. You know I warned you of its difficulty.”

      “Oh, please, sir, don’t,” said Prissie, holding up her hand with an impatient movement, which she now and then found herself indulging in. “I don’t care if Cicero is at the bottom of the sea. I don’t want to speak about him, or think about him. His day is over, mine is – oh, sir, I beg your pardon.”

      “Granted, my dear child. Sit down, Prissie. I will forgive your profane words about Cicero, for I see you are excited. What is the matter?”

      “I want you to help me, Mr Hayes. Will you help me? You have always been my dear friend, my good friend.”

      “Of course I will help you. What is wrong? Speak to me fully.”

      “Aunt Raby fainted in the hayfield yesterday.”

      “Indeed? It was a warm day; I am truly concerned. Would she like to see me? Is she better to-day?”

      “She is quite well to-day – quite well for the time.”

      “My dear Priscilla, what a tragic face! Your Aunt Raby is not the first woman who has fainted, and got out of her faint again and been none the worse.”

      “That is just the point, Mr Hayes. Aunt Raby has got out of her faint, but she is the worse.”

      Mr Hayes looked hard into his pupil’s face. There was no beauty in it. The mouth was wide, the complexion dull, the features irregular. Even her eyes – and perhaps they were Prissie’s best point – were neither large nor dark; but an expression now filled those eyes and lingered round that mouth which made the old rector feel solemn.

      He took one of the girl’s thin unformed hands between his own.

      “My dear child,” he said, “something weighs on your mind. Tell your old friend – your almost father – all that is in your heart.”

      Thus begged to make a confidence, Priscilla did tell a commonplace, and yet tragic, story. Aunt Raby was affected with an incurable illness. It would not kill her soon; she might live for years, but every year she would grow a little weaker, and a little less capable of toil. As long as she lived the little farm belonged to her, but whenever she died it would pass to a distant cousin. Whenever Aunt Raby died, Priscilla and her three sisters would be penniless.

      “So I have come to you,” continued Prissie, “to say that I must take steps at once to enable me to earn money. I must support Hattie and Rose and Katie whenever Aunt Raby goes. I must earn money as soon as it is possible for a girl to do so, and I must stop dreaming and thinking of nothing but books, for perhaps books and I will have little to say to each other in future.”

      “That would be sad,” replied Mr Hayes, “for that would be taking a directly opposite direction to the path which Providence clearly intends you to walk in.”

      Priscilla raised her eyes, and looked earnestly at the old rector. Then, clasping her hands tightly together, she said with suppressed passion —

      “Why do you encourage me to be selfish, Mr Hayes?”

      “I will not,” he replied, answering her look; “I will listen patiently to all you have to say. How do you propose to earn bread for yourself and your sisters?”

      “I thought of dressmaking.”

      “Um! Did you – make – the gown you have on?”

      “Yes,” replied Priscilla, looking down at her ungainly homespun garment.

      The rector rose to his feet, and smiled in the most sweet and benevolent way.

      “I am no judge of such matters,” he said, “and I may be wrong. But my impression is that the style and cut of that dress would scarcely have a large demand in fashionable quarters.”

      “Oh, sir!” Prissie blushed all over. “You know I said I should have to learn.”

      “My dear child,” said Mr Hayes, firmly, “when it becomes a question of a woman earning her bread, let her turn to that path where promise lies. There is no promise in the fit of that gown, Prissie. But here – here there is much.”

      He touched her big forehead lightly with his hand.

      “You must not give up your books, my dear,” he said, “for, independently of the pleasure they afford, they will also give you bread-and-butter. Go home now, and let me think over matters. Come again to-morrow. I may have important things to say to you.”

      From this conversation