"I don't know yet if she wants to," said Priscilla; "but Fr—, my uncle, will give any price. And I must have it. I shall—I shall be ill if I don't."
The vicar gazed at her upturned face in perplexity. "Dear me," he said, after a slight pause.
"We must live somewhere," remarked Priscilla.
"Of course you must," said Robin, suddenly and so heartily that she examined his eager face in more detail.
"Quite so, quite so," said the vicar. "Are you staying here at present?"
"Never at the Cock and Hens?" broke in Robin.
"We're at Baker's Farm."
"Ah yes—poor Mrs. Pearce will be glad of lodgers. Poor soul, poor soul."
"She's a very dirty soul," said Robin; and Priscilla's eyes flashed over him with a sudden sparkle.
"Is she the soul with the holes in its apron?" she asked.