She crushed the letter suddenly in one of her hands, then raised it to her lips and kissed it; then fiercely, as though she hated it, tossed it into the fire.  After this she sat quiet, her hands folded meekly, her head slightly bent.  The color gradually left her cheeks.  She looked dead tired and languid.  After a time she arose, and, walking very slowly across her room, sat down by her bureau and drew a sheet of paper before her.  As she did so her eyes fell for a moment on the Greek play which had fascinated her an hour ago.  She found herself again murmuring some lines from Prometheus Vinctus: 

  “O divine ether, and swift-winged winds——­”

She interrupted herself with a petulant movement.

“Folly!” she murmured, pushing the book aside.  “Even glorious, great thoughts like those don’t satisfy me.  Whoever supposed they would?  What was I given a heart for?  Why does it beat so fiercely, and long, and love? and why is it wrong—­ wrong of me to love?  Oh, Annabel Lee! oh, darling! if only your wretched Maggie Oliphant had never known you!”

Maggie dashed some heavy tears from her eyes.  Then, taking up her pen, she began to write.

“Heathhall,

“St. Benet’s.

“Dear Mr. HAMMMOND:  I should prefer that you did not in future give letters for me to any of my friends here.  I do not wish to receive them through the medium of any of my fellow-students.  Please understand this.  When you have anything to say to me, you can write in the ordinary course of post.  I am not ashamed of any slight correspondence we may have together; but I refuse to countenance, or to be in any sense a party to, what may even seem underhand.

“I shall try to be at the Marshalls’ on Sunday afternoon, but I
have nothing to say in reply to your letter.  My views are
unalterable.

“Yours sincerely,

“MargaretOliphant.”

Maggie did not read the letter after she had written it.  She put it into an envelope and directed it.  Here was a large and bold hand and the address was swiftly written

“GeoffreyHammond, ESQ.,

“St. Hilda’s,

“Kingsdene.”

She stamped her letter and, late as it was, took it down herself and deposited it in the post-bag.

The next morning, when the students strolled in to breakfast, many pairs of eyes were raised with a new curiosity to watch Priscilla Peel.  Even Maggie, as she drank her coffee and munched a piece of dry toast, for she was a very poor eater, could not help flashing a keen and interested glance at the young girl as she came into the room.

Prissie was the reverse of fashionable in her attire; her neat brown cashmere dress had been made by Aunt Raby.  The hemming, the stitching, the gathering, the frilling which went to make up this useful garment were neat, were even exquisite; but then, Aunt Raby was not gifted with a stylish cut.  Prissie’s hair was smoothly parted, but the thick plait on the back of the neck was by no means artistically coiled.