Brenda's Ward / A Sequel to 'Amy in Acadia'

by Helen Leah Reed

Now it was one of Mrs. Tilworth's theories that a girl should make her own bed and dust her own furniture. It was a theory, too, that she put into practice. Except on sweeping days, Priscilla took entire care of her own room. Sometimes she begrudged the time that she had to spend in this way. But on the morning after Martine's visit she was pleased that no housemaid had the right to handle the things on her bureau. Now, as this was Saturday morning, Priscilla took more time than usual dusting and arranging things generally. She did not dare move the corpulent pincushion lest someone should come in upon her while she was examining the ink mark. She knew that her aunt had a morning engagement, and while she worked she listened eagerly for the closing of the front door that would show that her aunt had departed.

But alas for her calculations! While she was still dusting her mantle-piece, Mrs. Tilworth, with hat and coat on, entered the room.

"My dear," began Mrs. Tilworth, kindly, "you must not take to yourself all that I said about Martine Stratford. You and she are really very different, and although I cannot say that her acquaintance was forced upon you, still it came about almost by accident. Had you not both gone to Acadia in Mrs. Redmond's care, you never would have known each other so well. You are not careless—I see you have been putting your room in order. It looks very well, but this pincushion is too near the edge. Dear me, what is this?"

Poor Priscilla reddened as Mrs. Tilworth gazed in horror at the spot that the cushion had concealed.

Her aunt's praise in the first place had been unexpected, and now she felt that she could hardly bear her reproof.

"What is this?" continued Mrs. Tilworth, picking up one of the tiny crystals from the cloth and touching it to the tip of her tongue. "As I thought, oxalic acid."

"Martine called it salts of lemon."

"So this is some of Martine's work, too. Perhaps she forgot to tell you that the salts, or the acid, whichever you choose to call it, is bound to eat a great hole in linen—and this the most valued of all my bureau covers. Ah, Priscilla, I thought you could be trusted." And pushing back the smaller articles that rested on it, Mrs. Tilworth flung the scarf over her arm and walked away with it—ink-spot and all.

Priscilla was now more deeply disturbed than before. In no way was she willing to have Martine blamed for what she had not done. Her friend was already sufficiently disgraced in Mrs. Tilworth's eyes. But now, even if she wished, she could not explain. Mrs. Tilworth had gone away for the day. In her heart of hearts Priscilla knew that even had her aunt been at home she would have found it difficult to explain things in their true light. For at the best she must appear extremely careless, and quite unworthy the confidence that Mrs. Tilworth had just expressed. Few girls are willing at a moment's notice to pull themselves down from a pedestal on which they may have been placed.

When Mrs. Tilworth and she were together on Saturday evening, Priscilla still found it hard to make the explanation that she knew was Martine's due, and she found the task no easier on Sunday. Monday was the day when the results of the prize contest were to be announced, and the usually calm Priscilla was inwardly perturbed. Her rank in English was high, and she could not help wondering if there might not be a chance that the prize would fall to her.