“Do you mean what you say, Priscilla?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.  You have the first right to me.  If you want me, I’ll
stay.”

“You’ll give up that outlandish Greek, and all that babel of foreign tongues, and your fine friends, and your grand college, and you hopes
of being a famous woman by and by?  Do you mean this, Prissie,
seriously?”

“Yes, if you want me.”

“And you say I have the first claim on you?”

“I do.”

“Then you’re wrong; I haven’t the first claim on you.”  Aunt Raby
tumbled off the sofa and managed to stand on her trembling old legs.

“Give me your arm, child,” she said; “and—­ and give me a kiss,
Prissie.  You’re a good girl and worthy of your poor father.  He was a
bookworm, and you are another.  But he was an excellent man, and you
resemble him.  I’m glad I took you home and did my best for you.  I’ll
tell him about you when I get to heaven.  He’ll be right pleased, I
know.  My sakes, child!  I don’t want the little bit of earth’s rest. 
I’m going to have a better sort than that.  And you think I’ve the
first claim on you?  A poor old body like me.  There, help me up to bed,
my dear.”

  Aunt Raby did not say any more as the two scrambled up the narrow
stairs in silence.  When they got into the little bedroom, however, she
    put her arms round Priscilla’s neck and gave her quite a hug.

“Thank you for offering yourself to me, my love,” she said, “but I
wouldn’t have you on any terms whatever.  Go and learn all you can at your fine college, Prissie.  It’s the fashion of the day for the young
folk to learn a lot, and there’s no going against the times.  In my
young life sewing was the great thing.  Now it’s Latin and Greek.  Don’t you forget that I taught you to sew, Prissie, and always put a back
stitch when you’re running a seam; it keeps the stuff together
wonderfully.  Now go to bed.”

CHAPTER XXIV

Two extremes

“Have you heard the news?” said Rosalind Merton.  She skipped into Miss Day’s room as she spoke.

“No; what?” asked that untidy person, turning round and dropping a lot of ribbon which she was converting into bows.  “What’s your news, Rose?  Out with it.  I expect it’s a case of ‘great cry and little wool.’  However, if you want a plain opinion from me——­”

“I don’t ask for your opinion, Annie.  I’m quite accustomed to the scornful way in which you have received all my words lately.  I need not tell you what I have heard at all, unless you wish to hear it.”

“But, of course, I wish to hear it, Rosie; you know that as well as I do.  Now sit down and make yourself at home; there’s a dear.”

Rose allowed herself to be mollified.

“Well,” she said, sinking back into Miss Day’s most comfortable chair, “the feud between a certain small person and a certain great person grows apace.”