Priscilla was tall and slight. Her figure was younger than her years, which were nearly nineteen, but her face was older. It was an almost careworn face, thoughtful, grave, with anxious lines already deepening the seriousness of the too serious mouth.
Priscilla cut some bread-and-butter, and poured out some tea for her aunt and for herself.
Miss Rachel Peel was not the least like her niece. She was short and rather dumpy. She had a sensible, downright sort of face, and she took life with a gravity which would have oppressed a less earnest spirit than Priscilla’s.
“Well, I’m tired,” she said, when the meal was over. “I suppose I’ve done a great deal more than I thought I had all day. I think I’ll go to bed early. We have said all our last words, haven’t we, Priscilla?”
“Pretty nearly, Aunt Raby.”
“Oh, yes, that reminds me—there’s one thing more. Your fees will be all right, of course, and your travelling, and I have arranged about your washing money.”
“Yes, Aunt Raby, oh, yes; everything is all right.”
Priscilla fidgeted, moved her position a little, and looked longingly out of the window.
“You must have a little money over and above these things,” proceeded Miss Peel, in her sedate voice. “I am not rich, but I’ll allow you—yes, I’ll manage to allow you two shillings a week. That will be for pocket-money, you understand, child.”