It was long past the tea-hour at Heath Hall when Maggie Oliphant and Priscilla started on their walk home.  The brightness and gaiety of the merry party at the Marshalls’ had increased as the moments flew on.  Even Priscilla had caught something of the charm.  The kindly spirit which animated every one seemed to get into her.  She first became interested, then she forgot herself.  Prissie was no longer awkward; she began to talk, and when she liked she could talk well.

As the two girls were leaving the house Geoffrey Hammond put in a sudden appearance.

“I will see you home,” he said to Maggie.

“No, no, you mustn’t,” she answered; her tone was vehement.  She forgot Prissie’s presence and half turned her back on her.

“How unkind you are!” said the young man in a low tone.

“No, Geoffrey, but I am struggling—­ you don’t know how hard I am struggling—­ to be true to myself.”

“You are altogether mistaken in your idea of truth,” said Hammond, turning and walking a little way by her side.

“I am not mistaken—­ I am right.”

“Well, at least allow me to explain my side of the question.”

“No, it cannot be; there shall be no explanations, I am resolved.  Good night, you must not come any further.”

She held out her hand.  Hammond took it limply between his own.

“You are very cruel,” he murmured in the lowest of voices.

He raised his hat, forgot even to bow to Priscilla, and hurried off down a side street.

Maggie walked on a little way.  Then she turned and looked down the street where he had vanished.  Suddenly she raised her hand to her lips, kissed it and blew the kiss after the figure which had already disappeared.  She laughed excitedly when she did this, and her whole face was glowing with a beautiful color.

Prissie, standing miserable and forgotten by the tall, handsome girl’s side, could see the light in her eyes and the glow on her cheeks in the lamplight.

“I am here,” said Priscilla at last in a low, half-frightened voice.  “I am sorry I am here, but I am.  I heard what you said to Mr. Hammond.  I am sorry I heard.”

Maggie turned slowly and looked at her.  Prissie returned her gaze.  Then, as if further words were wrung from her against her will, she continued: 

“I saw the tears in your eyes in the fern-house at the Marshalls’.  I am very sorry, but I did see them.”

“My dear Prissie!” said Maggie.  She went up suddenly to the girl, put her arm round her neck and kissed her.

“Come home now,” she said, drawing Prissie’s hand through her arm.  “I don’t think I greatly mind your knowing,” she said after a pause.  “You are true; I see it in your face.  You would never tell again—­ you would never make mischief.”

“Tell again!  Of course not.”  Prissie’s words came out with great vigor.

“I know you would not, Priscilla; may I call you Priscilla?”