“Does she know it?”
“Yes.”
“Ought I to be away from her now?—is it right?”
“My dear, do you want to break her heart? She worked so hard to get this time at college for you. No, Prissie, don’t get that idea into your head. Aunt Raby is most anxious that you should have every advantage. She knows—she and I both know—that she cannot live more than a year or two longer, and her greatest hope is that you may be able to support your little sisters when she is gone. No, Prissie, whatever happens, you must on no account give up your life at St. Benet’s.”
“Then please let me say something else. I must not go on with my classics.”
“My dear child, you are managing to crush me with all kinds of queer, disappointing sayings to-night.”
“Am I? But I mean what I say now. I love Greek better than anything almost in the world. But I know enough of it already for the mere purposes of rudimentary teaching. My German is faulty—my French not what it might be.”
“Come, come, my dear, Peters is waiting to settle for the night. Can we not talk on our way down to the cottage?”
Aunt Raby was fast asleep when Priscilla reentered the little sitting-room. The girl knelt down by the slight, old figure, and, stooping, pressed a light kiss on the forehead. Light as it was it awoke the sleeper.
“You are there still, child?” said Aunt Raby. “I dreamt you were away.”