“You are a very miserable and sinful girl. It was a wretched day for St. Benet’s when a girl such as you are came to live here. But I don’t want to speak of that now, Rosalind; there is something you must do before you leave.”
“What is that?”
“You must go to Priscilla Peel, and humbly beg her pardon.”
“Oh, I cannot, I cannot! You have no idea how I hate Priscilla.”
“I am not surprised; the children of darkness generally hate those who walk in the light.”
“Maggie, I can’t beg her pardon.”
“You can please yourself about that: I certainly shall not force you; but, unless you beg Priscilla’s pardon, and confess to her the wicked deed you have done, I shall lend you no money to go home. You can go to your room now, Rosalind; I am tired, and wish to go to bed. You will be able to let me know your decision in the morning.”
Rosalind turned slowly away. She reached her room before the other girls had arrived home, and tossing the coral ornaments on her dressing-table, she flung herself across her bed, and gave way to the most passionate, heart-broken sobs that had ever rent her baby frame.
She was still sobbing, but more quietly, for the force of her passion had exhausted her, when a very light touch on her shoulder caused her to raise herself, and look up wildly. Prissie was bending over her.
“I knocked several times,” she said, “but you did not hear me, so I came in. You will be sick if you cry like this, Rose. Let me help you to go to bed.”