They talked of one or two books which were then under discussion; they said a little about music and a word or two with regard to the pictures which were just then causing talk among the art critics in London.  It was all new to Prissie, this “light, airy, nothing” kind of talk.  It was not study; could it be classed under the head of recreation?

Prissie was accustomed to classify everything, but she did not know under what head to put this pleasant conversation.  She was bewildered, puzzled.  She listened without losing a word.  She forgot herself absolutely.

Miss Heath, however, who knew Maggie Oliphant, but did not know Prissie, was observant of the silent young stranger through all the delights of her pleasant talk.  Almost imperceptibly she got Prissie to say a word or two.  She paused when she saw a question in Prissie’s eyes, and her timid and gentle words were listened to with deference.  By slow degrees Maggie was the silent one and Priscilla and Miss Heath held the field between them.

“No, I have never been properly educated,” Prissie was saying.  “I have never gone to a high school.  I don’t do things in the regular fashion.  I was so afraid I should not be able to pass the entrance examination for St. Benet’s.  I was delighted when I found that I had done so.”

“You passed the examination creditably,” said Miss Heath.  “I have looked through your papers.  Your answers were not stereotyped.  They were much better; they were thoughtful.  Whoever has educated you, you have been well taught.  You can think.”

“Oh, yes, my dear friend, Mr. Hayes, always said that was the first thing.”

“Ah, that accounts for it,” replied Miss Heath.  “You have had the advantage of listening to a cultivated man’s conversation.  You ought to do very well here.  What do you mean to take up?”

“Oh, everything.  I can’t know too much.”

Miss Heath laughed and looked at Maggie.  Maggie was lying back in her easy-chair, her head resting luxuriously against a dark velvet cushion.  She was tapping the floor slightly with her small foot; her eyes were fixed on Prissie.  When Miss Heath laughed Maggie echoed the sound, but both laughs were in the sweetest sympathy.

“You must not overwork yourself, my dear,” said Miss Heath.  “That would be a very false beginning.  I think—­ I am sure—­ that you have an earnest and ardent nature, but you must avoid an extreme which will only end in disaster.”

Prissie frowned.

“What do you mean?” she said.  “I have come here to study.  It has been done with such, such difficulty.  It would be cruel to waste a moment.  I mustn’t; it wouldn’t be right.  You can’t mean what you say.”

Miss Heath was silent.  She thought it kinder to look away from Prissie.  After a moment she said in a voice which she on purpose made intensely quiet and matter of fact: 

“Many girls come to St. Benet’s, Miss Peel, who are, I fancy, circumstanced like you.  Their friends find it difficult to send them here, but they make the sacrifice, sometimes in one way, sometimes in another—­ and the girls come.  They know it is their duty to study; they have an ulterior motive, which underlies everything else.  They know by and by they must pay back.”