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.