“But I thought you loved your school.”
“It is better than my home—that is all I can say; but as to loving it,” Annie cried, “I love the world, and the ways of the world, and I should like some day to be a great, fine lady with magnificent clothes, and men, in especial, bowing down to me and making love to me! That is my idea of true happiness.”
“Well, it is not mine,” said Priscilla. She moved restlessly.
“How white you are, Priscie! You don’t look a bit well.”
“I am quite well. Why do you imagine I am not?”
“You are so sad, too. What are you sad about?”
As Annie boldly uttered the last words Priscilla’s face underwent a queer change. A sort of anguish seemed to fill it. Her mouth quivered.
“I shall never, never be quite happy again, Annie Brooke; and you know it.”
“Oh, you goose!” said Annie. “Do you mean to say you are letting your little fiddle-faddle of a conscience prick you?”
“It is the voice of God within me. You dare not speak of it like that!”