Priscilla looked bravely in the thin, kindly face. She remembered that Farwell had said that she need tell nothing more than she cared to, but an overpowering desire was growing upon her to confide everything to this friend of an hour. His deep, true eyes, fixed upon her, were challenging every doubt, every reserve.
"Farwell says you dance like a sprite."
At this Priscilla started as if from sleep.
"Ah! a childish bit of play," she said. "I—I have almost forgotten how to dance."
"I hope you will never forget. To dance and sing and laugh should be the heritage of all young things. You must forget to be serious, past the safety point! That's where danger lies. It does not pay to take our parts ponderously. I learned that long ago."
"I shall be—happy after a while." And now, quite simply and frankly, Priscilla cast away her anchors of caution and timidity and spoke openly:
"I—I have been so troubled. Things have happened to me that should not have happened if—if my mother and father could have trusted in me. They believed—wrong of me when really they should have pitied me. You trust me?"
"Absolutely."
"Master Farwell trusted me. As things were, the only comfort I could give my poor parents was to let them think I left Kenmore with—with a young man. Something had occurred that—looked wrong. It was only a terrible experience. No one helped me but Master Farwell. My—my people turned from me."
"It was Farwell's way: to help where he had faith," murmured Boswell.