"I declare, Molly, you're too bad! What do you want? I'm reading such an exciting story—"
"It can't be half so exciting as the story I have to tell," interrupted Molly, "for mine is true, and quite as interesting as a made-up one."
"Well, let me hear it," said Doris with an air of resignation as she picked up the fallen book and carefully examined it to make certain it was uninjured.
Doris and Molly Pring were the children of the Reverend Nathaniel Pring, the Vicar of N—, and their mother was the only daughter of Mr. Renford, the master of the Priory. Doris, who was nearly fifteen, was a quiet, reserved sort of girl, wrapped up in herself, and not a very congenial companion for her sister, who was two years her junior, and, truth to tell, a great tomboy. They were both nice-looking children, though neither could be termed pretty, and they were endowed with perfect health, a fact to which their clear complexions and rosy cheeks bore witness; but Molly was the more popular of the two, being cheerful and light-hearted, and always ready to do anyone a good turn. It came natural to Molly Pring to speak pleasantly, for she was a kind-hearted little soul, and her words but echoed the sentiments of one of the truest hearts that ever beat. There was not a man, woman, or child in the parish who did not love Miss Molly, and even old Harry Budd, who had been sentenced to several terms of imprisonment for poaching, had his word of praise for the Vicar's younger daughter, and declared she knew nearly as much about the habits of animals and birds as he did himself.
It was nearly nine o'clock, on the evening of the day that Felicia had arrived at N—, and the sisters were together in the schoolroom at the Vicarage. Doris had been reading by the light of the lamp which she had lit and placed on the table which occupied the middle of the room, and Molly had just come upstairs after having been present at an interview between her grandfather and her parents.
"Well, tell me your news," Doris said a trifle impatiently, as her sister, having whetted her curiosity, appeared in no hurry to satisfy it; "I hope something really exciting has happened, for I am sure our lives are dull enough, as a rule. Is it anything to do with Miss Barton?"
Miss Barton was their governess, who had gone to her home in Bristol a fortnight previously, on account of the illness of her mother. The invalid was now reported much better, and the governess was expected to return to her pupils soon.
"No," Molly replied; "nothing whatever. Grandfather has been here—and, oh, Doris, who do you think is at the Priory? You'll never guess if I give you a dozen chances, so I may as well tell you. Our cousin!"
"Our cousin!" echoed Doris wonderingly. "What cousin?"
"Why, we have but one. Have you forgotten? Surely not. Don't you remember mother told us that when her brother John died, he left a wife and a child—a little baby girl? And it's that little girl who's at the Priory. Fancy! she came from Bristol by herself, and she is only twelve years old. Mother would not allow you or I to travel alone, although we are older, but her mother is dead—she only died about a week ago. Oh, isn't that sad? And her name is Felicia. Did you ever know a prettier name? Father says it means 'happiness.'"