When she had come to be quite at home among us, I used to fancy that Priscilla played more pranks, and perpetrated more mischief, than any other girl in the Community.  For example, I once heard Silas Foster, in a very gruff voice, threatening to rivet three horseshoes round Priscilla’s neck and chain her to a post, because she, with some other young people, had clambered upon a load of hay, and caused it to slide off the cart.  How she made her peace I never knew; but very soon afterwards I saw old Silas, with his brawny hands round Priscilla’s waist, swinging her to and fro, and finally depositing her on one of the oxen, to take her first lessons in riding.  She met with terrible mishaps in her efforts to milk a cow; she let the poultry into the garden; she generally spoilt whatever part of the dinner she took in charge; she broke crockery; she dropt our biggest water pitcher into the well; and—­except with her needle, and those little wooden instruments for purse-making—­was as unserviceable a member of society as any young lady in the land.  There was no other sort of efficiency about her.  Yet everybody was kind to Priscilla; everybody loved her and laughed at her to her face, and did not laugh behind her back; everybody would have given her half of his last crust, or the bigger share of his plum-cake.  These were pretty certain indications that we were all conscious of a pleasant weakness in the girl, and considered her not quite able to look after her own interests or fight her battle with the world.  And Hollingsworth—­perhaps because he had been the means of introducing Priscilla to her new abode—­appeared to recognize her as his own especial charge.

Her simple, careless, childish flow of spirits often made me sad.  She seemed to me like a butterfly at play in a flickering bit of sunshine, and mistaking it for a broad and eternal summer.  We sometimes hold mirth to a stricter accountability than sorrow; it must show good cause, or the echo of its laughter comes back drearily.  Priscilla’s gayety, moreover, was of a nature that showed me how delicate an instrument she was, and what fragile harp-strings were her nerves.  As they made sweet music at the airiest touch, it would require but a stronger one to burst them all asunder.  Absurd as it might be, I tried to reason with her, and persuade her not to be so joyous, thinking that, if she would draw less lavishly upon her fund of happiness, it would last the longer.  I remember doing so, one summer evening, when we tired laborers sat looking on, like Goldsmith’s old folks under the village thorn-tree, while the young people were at their sports.

“What is the use or sense of being so very gay?” I said to Priscilla, while she was taking breath, after a great frolic.  “I love to see a sufficient cause for everything, and I can see none for this.  Pray tell me, now, what kind of a world you imagine this to be, which you are so merry in.”

“I never think about it at all,” answered Priscilla, laughing.  “But this I am sure of, that it is a world where everybody is kind to me, and where I love everybody.  My heart keeps dancing within me, and all the foolish things which you see me do are only the motions of my heart.  How can I be dismal, if my heart will not let me?”