“I have a thought in my head, Priscie—such a funny thought. You know Mabel Lushington?”
“Why, of course.”
“She is just as angry as you are. You remember you both got letters at the same time. You read yours and told us about it. Then you left the room. Afterwards she read hers. What do you think her letter was about?”
“I am afraid I neither know nor care,” replied Priscilla.
“That is very selfish of you, for you ought to care. Well, I will tell you. She has got to stay at school, whether she likes it or not.”
“Lucky, lucky girl!” said Priscilla.
“But that is just the point, you old silly. She doesn’t consider herself at all lucky. She hates and detests school, and wants to go; she would give all the world to go.”
“And can’t she?”
“No; at least there is scarcely a chance. Her aunt has subjected her to a ridiculous test. She says that if by any chance Mabel wins the first prize in the literature competition she may leave school and join her in Paris. If she does not win it, she has to stay here for another year. Mabel is nearly mad, for of course she has not a chance of the prize.”
“Not a chance,” said Priscilla.