“What is that?”

“You must go to Priscilla Peel and humbly beg her pardon.”

“Oh, I cannot, I cannot!  You have no idea how I hate Priscilla.”

“I am not surprised; the children of darkness generally hate those who walk in the light.”

“Maggie, I can’t beg her pardon.”

“You can please yourself about that:  I certainly shall not force you; but, unless you beg Priscilla’s pardon and confess to her the wicked deed you have done, I shall lend you no money to go home.  You can go to your room now, Rosalind; I am tired and wish to go to bed.  You will be able to let me know your decision in the morning.”

Rosalind turned slowly away.  She reached her room before the other girls had arrived home, and tossing the coral ornaments on her dressing-table, she flung herself across her bed and gave way to the most passionate, heart-broken sobs that had ever rent her baby frame.

She was still sobbing, but more quietly, for the force of her passion had exhausted her, when a very light touch on her shoulder caused her to raise herself and look up wildly.  Prissie was bending over her.

“I knocked several times,” she said, “but you did not hear me, so I came in.  You will be sick if you cry like this, Rose.  Let me help you go to bed.”

“No, no; please don’t touch me.  I don’t want you, of all people, to do anything for me.”

“I wish you would let me undress you.  I have often helped Aunt Raby to go to bed when she was very tired.  Come, Rose, don’t turn away from me.  Why should you?”

“Priscilla, you are the last person in the world who ought to be kind to me just now; you don’t know, you can never, never guess, what I did to you.”

“Yes, I can partly guess, but I don’t want to think of it.”

“Listen, Prissie:  when I stole that money, I hoped people would accuse you of the theft.”

Prissie’s eyes filled with tears.  “It was a dreadful thing to do,” she said faintly.

“Oh, I knew you could never forgive me.”

“I do forgive you.”

“What! aren’t you angry?  Aren’t you frantic with rage and passion?”

“I don’t wish to think of myself at all:  I want to think of you.  You are the one to be pitied.”

“I?  Who could pity me?”

“Well, Rosalind, I do,” answered Priscilla in a slow voice; “you have sunk so low, you have done such a dreadful thing, the kind of thing that the angels in heaven would grieve over.”

“Oh, please don’t talk to me of them.”

“And then, Rosalind,” continued Prissie, “you look so unlike a girl who would do this sort of thing.  I have a little sister at home—­ a dear, little innocent sister, and her eyes are blue like yours, and she is fair, too, as you are fair.  I love her, and I think all good things of her.  Rosalind, I fancy that your mother thinks good things of you.  I imagine that she is proud of you, and that she loves to look at your pretty face.”