Mrs. Fleming was in her luxurious sitting-room when Prissy arrived. She was a tall, rather handsome girl, with straight features and good, honest eyes. Integrity and uprightness shone all over her young face. She had something the look of a young knight who had girded on his armour, and, with his sword ever by his side, was ready to fight in the cause of righteousness.
“Priscilla dear,” said the head-mistress, “I’m going to ask you and Rufa to do something which I’m afraid you won’t at all like.”
“You mean, Mrs. Fleming,” said Priscilla, “that you want us to sleep in the upper dormitory? We don’t mind at all—that is, if it will help you.”
“It will help me very much, Priscilla.”
“Then it’s settled, of course,” said Prissy, in her pleasant voice.
“I don’t give you any reason for this change, dear,” said the head-mistress, looking at her pupil.
“Of course not. Why should you?”
“Every girl wouldn’t speak like that, Prissy.”
“But every girl hasn’t got a head-mistress like you,” answered Priscilla, and she bent gracefully on one knee, and taking her mistress’s hand raised it in her young, stately fashion to her lips.
“Priscilla, child, you know I can’t bear tale-bearers.”