“You are brave,” she said. “I admire you. I—I—am proud of you. I am glad to know that a girl like you has come to live here.”
“Don’t—don’t,” said poor Prissie. Her little burst of courage had deserted her. She covered her face with her trembling hands. She did not want Nancy Banister to see that her eyes were full of tears.
Chapter Seven.
In Miss Oliphant’s Room.
“My dear,” said Nancy Banister that same evening—“my dear and beloved Maggie, we have both been guilty of a huge mistake.”
“What is that?” asked Miss Oliphant. She was leaning back in a deep easy-chair, and Nancy, who did not care for luxurious seats, had perched herself on a little stool at her feet. Nancy was a small, nervous-looking person; she had a zealous face, and eager, almost too active movements. Nancy was the soul of bustling good-nature, of brightness and kindness. She often said that Maggie Oliphant’s laziness rested her.
“What is it?” said Maggie, again. “How are we in the wrong, Nance?”
She lifted her dimpled hand as she spoke, and contemplated it with a slow, satisfied sort of smile.