“Priscilla,” said Hollingsworth, “come.”  Zenobia smiled; possibly I did so too.  Not often, in human life, has a gnawing sense of injury found a sweeter morsel of revenge than was conveyed in the tone with which Hollingsworth spoke those two words.  It was the abased and tremulous tone of a man whose faith in himself was shaken, and who sought, at last, to lean on an affection.  Yes; the strong man bowed himself and rested on this poor Priscilla!  Oh, could she have failed him, what a triumph for the lookers-on!

And, at first, I half imagined that she was about to fail him.  She rose up, stood shivering like the birch leaves that trembled over her head, and then slowly tottered, rather than walked, towards Zenobia.  Arriving at her feet, she sank down there, in the very same attitude which she had assumed on their first meeting, in the kitchen of the old farmhouse.  Zenobia remembered it.

“Ah, Priscilla!” said she, shaking her head, “how much is changed since then!  You kneel to a dethroned princess.  You, the victorious one!  But he is waiting for you.  Say what you wish, and leave me.”

“We are sisters!” gasped Priscilla.

I fancied that I understood the word and action.  It meant the offering of herself, and all she had, to be at Zenobia’s disposal.  But the latter would not take it thus.

“True, we are sisters!” she replied; and, moved by the sweet word, she stooped down and kissed Priscilla; but not lovingly, for a sense of fatal harm received through her seemed to be lurking in Zenobia’s heart.  “We had one father!  You knew it from the first; I, but a little while,—­else some things that have chanced might have been spared you.  But I never wished you harm.  You stood between me and an end which I desired.  I wanted a clear path.  No matter what I meant.  It is over now.  Do you forgive me?”

“O Zenobia,” sobbed Priscilla, “it is I that feel like the guilty one!”

“No, no, poor little thing!” said Zenobia, with a sort of contempt.  “You have been my evil fate, but there never was a babe with less strength or will to do an injury.  Poor child!  Methinks you have but a melancholy lot before you, sitting all alone in that wide, cheerless heart, where, for aught you know,—­and as I, alas! believe,—­ the fire which you have kindled may soon go out.  Ah, the thought makes me shiver for you!  What will you do, Priscilla, when you find no spark among the ashes?”

“Die!” she answered.

“That was well said!” responded Zenobia, with an approving smile.  “There is all a woman in your little compass, my poor sister.  Meanwhile, go with him, and live!”