“I? Who could pity me?”
“Well, Rosalind, I do,” answered Priscilla in a slow voice; “you have sunk so low, you have done such a dreadful thing, the kind of thing that the angels in heaven would grieve over.”
“Oh, please don’t talk to me of them.”
“And then, Rosalind,” continued Prissie, “you look so unlike a girl who would do this sort of thing. I have a little sister at home—a dear, little innocent sister, and her eyes are blue like yours, and she is fair, too, as you are fair. I love her, and I think all good things of her. Rosalind, I fancy that your mother thinks good things of you. I imagine that she is proud of you, and that she loves to look at your pretty face.”
“Oh, don’t—don’t?” sobbed Rosalind. “Oh, poor mother, poor mother!” she burst into softened and sorrowful weeping. The hardness of her heart had melted for the time under the influence of Priscilla’s tender words.
“I wish I had known you sooner,” whispered Rose when Prissie bent down and kissed her before leaving her for the night. “Perhaps I might have been a good girl if I had really known you sooner, Priscilla Peel.”