“I will try and find Miss Heath, Miss, and ask her to come to you without delay,” answered the maid. She softly withdrew, closing the door after her. Priscilla went and stood on the hearthrug. Raising her eyes for a moment, they rested on a large and beautiful platinotype of G.F. Watts’s picture of “Hope.” The last time she had visited Miss Heath in that room, Prissie had been taken by the kind Vice-Principal to look at the picture, and some of its symbolism was explained to her. “That globe on which the figure of Hope sits,” Miss Heath had said, “is meant to represent the world. Hope is blindfolded in order more effectually to shut out the sights which might distract her. See the harp in her hand, observe her rapt attitude—she is listening to melody—she hears, she rejoices, and yet the harp out of which she makes music only possesses one string—all the rest are broken.” Miss Heath said nothing further, and Prissie scarcely took in the full meaning of the picture that evening. Now she looked again, and a passionate agony swept over her. “Hope has one string still left to her harp with which she can play music,” murmured the young girl; “but oh! there are times when all the strings of the harp are broken; then, Hope dies.”
The room door was opened, and the servant reappeared.
“I am very sorry, Miss,” she said, “but Miss Heath has gone out for the morning. Would you like to see anyone else?”
Priscilla gazed at the messenger in a dull sort of way. “I can’t see Miss Heath?” she murmured.
“No, Miss, she is out.”
“Very well.”
“Can I do anything for you, Miss?”
“No, thank you.”
The servant went away with a puzzled expression on her face.
“That plain young lady, who is so awful poor—Miss Peel, I mean—seems in a sad taking,” she said by-and-by to her fellow-servants.