“It did appeal to me very strongly; I loved to write about it.”
“I can fancy you at it; you are just full of imagination.”
“It is my dearest possession,” said Priscilla. A new look came into her eyes. She turned her fine face and looked at her companion. “And when I leave school,” she added, “I shall take it with me. Even when I am working in the dairy and mending the children’s socks I shall still rejoice in it. I am glad you reminded me of it—very glad.”
“Well, I wish you joy of your future life. I would have helped you, but you won’t be helped.”
“You don’t suppose,” said Priscilla suddenly, “that I don’t just long to catch at any straw? You don’t suppose that I am not tempted? But even—even if I were to consider your base proposal for a single minute, what good on earth would it do me? The reason I am leaving school is because Uncle Josiah will not pay for my schooling. He certainly won’t pay for it any more because I have not won the literature prize.”
“But if I can positively promise you—and I am almost sure it can be done—that your schooling will be paid in another way, what then?”
“Annie, you cannot make me that promise. Say nothing more about it.”
“Oh, well, if you won’t talk of it, it can’t be helped. I am going to Mabel now.”
“Annie, I suppose you mean kindly, and I suppose I ought to feel that you do; but you don’t understand. It is a case of noblesse oblige with me. If I did stoop to what you suggest I should never, never have a happy hour again.”
“Very well,” said Annie. “I am glad I have not such a troublesome conscience.”