Aunt Raby has done this.  Well,” continued Priscilla, slow tears coming to her eyes and making themselves felt in her voice, “this hard work is killing her; Aunt Raby is dying because she has worked so hard for us.  Before my three years have come to an end here, she will be far, far away:  she will be at rest forever—­ God will be making up to her for all she has done here.  Her hard life which God will have thought beautiful will be having its reward.  Afterward I have to support and educate the three little girls.  I spoke to Mr. Hayes—­ my dear clergyman, about whom I have told you, and who taught me all I know—­ and he agrees with me that I know enough of Greek and Latin now for rudimentary teaching, and that I shall be better qualified to take a good paying situation if I devote the whole of my time while at St. Benet’s to learning and perfecting myself in modern languages.  It’s the end of a lovely dream, of course, but there is no doubt—­ no doubt whatever—­ what is right for me to do.”

Prissie stopped speaking.  Maggie went up again and tried to take her hand; she drew back a step or two, pretending not to see.

“It has been very kind of you to listen,” she said; “I am very grateful to you, for now, whatever we may be to each other in future, you will understand that I don’t give up what I love lightly.  Thank you, you have helped me much.  Now I must go and tell Miss Heath what I have said to you.  I have had a happy reading of Euripides and have enjoyed listening to you.  I meant to give myself that one last treat—­ now it is over.  Good night.”

Priscilla left the room—­ she did not even kiss Maggie as she generally did at parting for the night.

CHAPTER XXV

 A mysterious episode

When she was alone, Maggie Oliphant sat down in her favorite chair and covered her face with her hands.  “It is horrible to listen to stories like that,” she murmured under her breath.  “Such stories get on the nerves.  I shall not sleep to-night.  Fancy any people calling themselves ladies wanting meat, wanting clothes, wanting warmth.  Oh, my God! this is horrible.  Poor Prissie!  Poor, brave Prissie!” Maggie started from her chair and paced the length of her room once or twice.  “I must help these people,” she said; “I must help this Aunt Raby and those three little sisters.  Penywern Cottage shall no longer be without coal, and food, and warmth.  How shall I do this?  One thing is quite evident—­ Prissie must not know.  Prissie is as proud as I am.  How shall I manage this?” She clasped her hands, her brow was contracted with the fulness of her thought.  After a long while she left her room, and, going to the other end of the long corridor, knocked at Nancy Banister’s door.  Nancy was within.  It did not take Maggie long to tell the tale which she had just heard from Priscilla’s lips.  Prissie had told her simple story with force, but it lost nothing in Maggie’s hands.  She had a fine command of language, and she drew a picture of such pathos that Nancy’s honest blue eyes filled with tears.