She swayed back and forth, her closely folded arms across her fast-beating heart. She kept her face turned toward the door through which she knew the men would enter. She struggled for control, for a manner which would disarm their shock at seeing her; but never in her life had she felt more defeated, more helplessly at bay.
The early morning light, streaming through the broad eastern window, struck full across her where she sat in the low rocker; and so Boswell and Farwell came upon her. They stopped short on the threshold and each, in his way, sought to account for the apparition. The brave smile upon Priscilla's face broke and fled miserably.
"I—I've been doshed!" she cried in a last effort at bravado, and then, covering her face with her hands, she wept hysterically, repeating again and again, "I've come home, come home—to—no home!"
They were beside her at once. Boswell's hand rested on the bowed head; Farwell's on the back of her chair.
"Dear, bright Butterfly!" whispered Boswell comfortingly; "it has come to grief in the Garden."
"Oh! I wanted to learn, and oh! Master Farwell, I said I was willing to suffer, and I have, I have!"
Then she looked up and her unflinching courage returned.
"I was tired!" she moaned; "tired and hungry."
"After breakfast you will explain—only as much as you choose, child." This from Farwell. "Make the toast for us, Priscilla. I remember how you used to brown it without blackening it. Boswell always gets dreaming on the second side of the slice."
After the strange meal Priscilla told very little, but both men read volumes in her pale, thin face and understanding eyes.