"If you would," said Prissie. "But you don't mean it. It is impossible that you can mean it. I'm not a bit like you-- and-- and-- you only say these things to be kind."

"What do you mean, Priscilla?"

"I must tell you," said Prissie, turning very pale. "I heard what you said to Miss Banister the night I came to the college."

"What I said to Miss Banister? What did I say?"

"Oh, can't you remember? The words seemed burnt into me: I shall never forget them. I had left my purse in the dining-hall, and I was going to fetch it. Your door was a little open. I heard my name, and I stopped-- yes, I did stop to listen."

"Oh, what a naughty, mean little Prissie! You stopped to listen. And what did you hear? Nothing good, of course? The bad thing was said to punish you for listening."

"I heard," said Priscilla, her own cheeks crimson now, "I heard you say that it gave you an aesthetic pleasure to be kind, and that was why you were good to me."

Maggie felt her own color rising.

"Well, my dear," she said, "it still gives me an aesthetic pleasure to be kind. You could not expect me to fall in love with you the moment I saw you. I was kind to you then, perhaps, for the reason I stated. It is very different now."

"It was wrong of you to be kind to me for that reason."

"Wrong of me? What an extraordinary girl you are, Priscilla-- why was it wrong of me?"

"Because I learned to love you. You were gentle to me and spoke courteously when others were rude and only laughed; my whole heart went out to you when you were so sweet and gentle and kind. I did not think-- I could not possibly think-- that you were good just because it gave you a sort of selfish pleasure. When I heard your words I felt dreadful. I hated St. Benet's; I wished I had never come. Your words turned everything to bitterness for me."

"Did they really, Priscilla? Oh, Prissie! what a thoughtless, wild, impulsive creature I am. Well, I don't feel now as I did that night.

If those words were cruel, forgive me. Forget those words, Prissie."

"I will if you will."

"I? I have forgotten them utterly."

"Thank you, thank you."

"Then we'll be friends-- real friends; true friends?"

Yes."

"You must say Yes, Maggie.'"

"Yes, Maggie."

"That is right. Now keep your hand in my arm. Let's walk fast. Is it not glorious to walk in this semi-frosty sort of weather? Prissie, you'll see a vast lot that you don't approve of in your new friend."

"Oh, I don't care," said Priscilla.

She felt so joyous she could have skipped.

"I've as many sides," continued Maggie, "as a chamelon has colors. I am the gayest of the gay, as well as the saddest of the sad. When I am gay you may laugh with me, but I warn you when I am sad you must never cry with me. Leave me alone when I have my dark moods on, Prissie."

"Very well, Maggie, I'll remember."

"I think you'll make a delightful friend," said Miss Oliphant, just glancing at her; "but I pity your side of the bargain."

"Why?"

"Because I'll try you so fearfully."

"Oh, no, you won't. I don't want to have a perfect friend."

"Perfect. No, child-- Heaven forbid. But there are shades of perfection. Now, when I get into my dark moods, I feel wicked as well as sad. No, we won't talk of them; we'll keep them away. Prissie, I feel good to-night-- good-- and glad: it's such a nice feeling."

"I am sure of it," said Priscilla.

"What do you know about it, child? You have not tasted life yet. Wait until you do. For instance-- no, though-- I won't enlighten you.

Prissie, what do you think of Geoffrey Hammond?"

"I think he loves you very much."

"Poor Geoffrey! Now, Prissie, you are to keep that little thought quite dark in your mind-- in fact, you are to put it out of your mind.

You are not to a.s.sociate my name with Mr. Hammond's-- not even in your thoughts. You will very likely hear us spoken of together, and some of the stupid girls here will make little quizzing, senseless remarks.

But there will be no truth in them, Prissie. He is nothing to me nor I to him."

"Then why did you blow a kiss after him?" asked Priscilla.

Maggie stood still. It was too dark for Priscilla to see her blush.

"Oh, my many-sided nature!" she suddenly exclaimed. "It was a wicked sprite made me blow that kiss. Prissie, my dear, I am cold: race me to the house."

The two girls entered the wide hall, flushed and laughing. Other girls were lingering about on the stairs. Some were just starting off to evening service at Kingsdene; others were standing in groups, chatting. Nancy Banister came up and spoke to Maggie. Maggie took her arm and walked away with her.

Prissie found herself standing alone in the hall. It was as if the delightful friendship cemented between herself and Miss Oliphant in the frosty air outside had fallen to pieces like a castle of cards the moment they entered the house. Prissie felt a chill. Her high spirits went down a very little. Then, resolving to banish the ign.o.ble spirit of distrust, she prepared to run upstairs to her own room.

Miss Heath called her name as she was pa.s.sing an open door.

"Is that you, my dear? Will you come to my room after supper to-night?"

"Oh, thank you," said Prissie, her eyes sparkling.

Miss Heath came to the threshold of her pretty room and smiled at the young girl.

"You look well and happy," she said. "You are getting at home here.

You will love us all yet."

"I love you now!" said Prissie with fervor.

Miss Heath, prompted by the look of intense and sincere gladness on the young face, bent and kissed Priscilla. A rather disagreeable voice said suddenly at her back:

"I beg your pardon," and Lucy Marsh ran down the stairs.

She had knocked against Prissie in pa.s.sing; she had witnessed Miss Heath's kiss. The expression on Lucy's face was unpleasant. Prissie did not notice it, however. She went slowly up to her room. The electric light was on, the fire was blazing merrily. Priscilla removed her hat and jacket, threw herself into the one easy-chair the room contained, and gave herself up to pleasant dreams. Many new aspects of life were opening before her. She felt that it was a good thing to be young, and she was distinctly conscious of a great, soft glow of happiness.