“If I might venture to make the remark,” said Annie, “it is the one thing which in honour ought to keep you back. There is honour even amongst thieves, you know,” she added a little nervously.
“And that is what I am,” said poor Priscilla. “I have practically stolen my year’s schooling; I have, like Esau, sold my birthright for a mess of pottage. Oh! what shall I do?”
“Nothing,” said Annie; “and please don’t talk any more in that particularly intense way, for people will begin to stare at us.”
Priscilla sank back in her seat. Her head was aching. Annie, on the contrary, sat very upright, looking fresh, bright, and happy. After a time, however, something occurred which made her feel less comfortable. Priscilla bent towards her and said:
“By the way—I was almost forgetting, and she begged of me so hard not to do so—but will you return her book to Susan Martin?” Annie’s face became crimson, then pale.
“Susan Martin?” she said. “Do you know her?”
“Of course I know her, Annie. What a queer colour you have turned! She has been making several things for me during the last few days. She is very much excited, poor girl, about a manuscript book of poems which you borrowed from her. She said you wanted them to show to a judge of poetry in order to help her to get them published. I had not an idea that the poor girl was a poet.”
“Oh, she is,” said Annie, who by this time had recovered her self-possession, and whom the very imminence of the danger rendered cool and self-possessed. “She writes quite wonderfully. I did borrow her book to show to Uncle Maurice; he is such a good judge.”
“Oh, was that all?” said Priscilla. “I thought from Susan’s manner that you knew some publisher. She thinks a great deal about her poems.”
“Yes, poor girl!” said Annie; “I must write to her.”