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 came the results which, shortly after the completion of her eighteenth year, made Priscilla an inmate of St. Benet’s far-famed College for Women. Mr Hayes left no stone unturned to effect his object. He thought Priscilla could do brilliantly as a teacher, and he resolved that for this purpose she should have the advantages which a collegiate life alone could offer to her. He himself prepared her for her entrance examination, and he and Aunt Raby between them managed the necessary funds to give the girl a three-years’ life as a student in these halls of learning.
Prissie knew very little about the money part of the scheme. She only guessed what had become of Aunt Raby’s watch and chain; and a spasm crossed her face when one day she happened to see that Aunt Raby’s poor little jewel case was empty. The jewels and the watch could certainly not fetch much, but they provided Prissie with a modest little outfit, and Mr Hayes had got a grant from a loan society, which further lightened expenses for all parties.
Priscilla bade her sisters, her aunt, and the old rector good-bye, and started on her new life with courage.
Chapter Six
College Life
The routine of life at St. Benet’s was something as follows: —
The dressing-bell was rung at seven, and all the students were expected to meet in the chapel for prayers at eight. Nothing was said if they did not appear; no reproofs were uttered, and no inquiries made; but the good-fellowship between the students and the dons was so apparent in the three Halls, that known wishes were always regarded, and, as a rule, there were few absentees.
The girls went to chapel in their white-straw sailor-hats, simply trimmed with a broad band of ribbon of the college
