“Then you’re wrong; I haven’t the first claim on you.” Aunt Raby tumbled off the sofa, and managed to stand on her trembling old legs.
“Give me your arm, child,” she said; “and—and give me a kiss, Prissie. You’re a good girl, and worthy of your poor father. He was a bookworm, and you are another. But he was an excellent man, and you resemble him. I’m glad I took you home, and did my best for you. I’ll tell him about you when I get to heaven. He’ll be right pleased, I know. My sakes, child! I don’t want the little bit of earth’s rest. I’m going to have a better sort than that. And you think I’ve the first claim on you? A poor old body like me. There, help me up to bed, my dear.”
Aunt Raby did not say any more as the two scrambled up the narrow stairs in silence. When they got into the little bedroom, however, she put her arms round Priscilla’s neck, and gave her quite a hug.
“Thank you for offering yourself to me, my love,” she said, “but I wouldn’t have you on any terms whatever. Go and learn all you can at your fine college, Prissie. It’s the fashion of the day for the young folk to learn a lot, and there’s no going against the times. In my young life sewing was the great thing. Now it’s Latin and Greek. Don’t you forget that I taught you to sew, Prissie, and always put a back stitch when you’re running a seam; it keeps the stuff together wonderfully. Now go to bed.”
Chapter Twenty Four.
Two Extremes.
“Have you heard the news?” said Rosalind Merton. She skipped into Miss Day’s room as she spoke.
“No; what?” asked that untidy person, turning round and dropping a lot of ribbon which she was converting into bows. “What’s your news, Rose? Out with it. I expect it’s a case of ‘great cry and little wool.’ However, if you want a plain opinion from me—”