Once, long ago, this queer, dried-up old man had a young daughter, a daughter whom he loved very passionately, but who died just when she was grown up. The girl had been tall and slender, like Priscilla, and strangely unworldly and fond of books, and, as the old man described it, good at star-gazing. He did not know why the memory of Esther, who had been in her grave for so many years, returned to him now. But, be that as it may, Priscilla, without being exactly like Esther, gave him back thoughts of his daughter, and because of that he felt inclined to be kind to the lonely girl. So, changing his seat which he had taken at the farther end of the carriage, he placed himself opposite to her and said in a voice which she scarcely recognised:
“Cheer up now, won’t you? There is no good in fretting.”
Priscilla was startled at the kindness of the tone. It shook her out of a dream. She turned her intensely sorrowful eyes full upon Mr Manchuri and said:
“I shall get over my disappointment, I am sure; please don’t take any notice of me.”
“But, come now,” said Mr Manchuri, “what are you fretting about? You are going home, I understand.”
“Oh no, I am not,” said Priscilla; “I am going back to school.”
“Oh, so you are a schoolgirl?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How old are you, my dear?”
“I am nearly seventeen,” said Priscilla.