A vivid picture rose up before Priscilla's eyes as she spoke of Mrs.

Elliot-Smith's drawing-room, and the dainty, disdainful ladies in their gay attire, and her own poor, little forlorn figure in her muddy cashmere dress-- the same dress Aunt Raby considered soft and beautiful as velvet.

"Oh, Aunt Raby," she said with sudden impulse, "a great many things have happened to me since I went away. On the whole I have had a very good time."

Aunt Raby opened her mouth to emit a prodigious yawn.

"I don't know how it is," she said, "but I'm a bit drowsy to-night. I suppose it's the weather. The day was quite a muggy one. I'll hear your news another time, Priscilla; but don't you be turned with the vanities of the world, Priscilla. Life's but a pa.s.sing day: you mind that when you're young, and it won't come on you as a shock when you are old. I'm glad the cashmere has worn well-- aye, that I am, Prissie. But don't put it on in the morning, my love, for it's a sin to wear through beautiful fine stuff like that. And, even if the color is gone a bit round the hem, the stuff itself isn't worn, and looks don't signify. You'll have to make up your mind to wear the cashmere for best again next term, Prissie, for, though I'm not pinched in any way, I'm not overflush either, my love."

Priscilla, who had been sitting in a low chair near her aunt, now rose to her feet.

"Ought we not to come to bed?" she said. "If you don't feel tired, you look it, Aunt Raby. Come upstairs, do, and let me help you to take your things off and put you into bed. Come, Aunt Raby, it will be like old times to help you, you know."

The girl knelt by the old woman, took one of her withered hands, raised it suddenly to her lips and kissed it. Aunt Raby's face was still turned from the light.

"Don't you keep kneeling on your cashmere," she said. "You'll crease it awfully, and I don't see my way to another best dress this term."

"You needn't, Aunt Raby," said Priscilla in a steady voice. "The cashmere is quite neat still. I can manage well with it."

Aunt Raby rose slowly and feebly from the sofa.

"You may help me to get into bed if you like," she said. "The muggy day has made me wonderfully drowsy, and I'll be glad to lie down. It's only that. I'll be as pert as a cricket in the morning."

The old woman leaned on the girl's strong, young arm and stumbled a bit as she went up the narrow stairs.

When they entered the tiny bedroom Aunt Raby spoke again:

"Your dress will do, but I have been fretting about your winter jacket, Prissie. There's my best one, though-- you know, the quilted satin which my mother left me; it's loose and full, and you shall have it."

"But you want it to go to church in yourself, Aunt Raby."

"I don't often go to church lately, child. I take a power of comfort lying on the sofa, reading my Bible, and Mr. Hayes doesn't see anything contrary to Scripture in it, for I asked him. Yes, you shall have my quilted satin jacket to take back to college with you, Prissie, and then you'll be set up fine."

Priscilla bent forward and kissed Aunt Raby. She made no other response, but that night before she went to sleep she saw distinctly a vision of herself. Prissie was as little vain as a girl could be, but the vision of her own figure in Aunt Raby's black satin quilted jacket was not a particularly inspiriting one. The jacket, full in the skirts, long in the shoulders, wide in the sleeves and enormous round the neck, would scarcely bear comparison with the neat, tight-fitting garments which the other girl graduates of St. Benet's were wont to patronize. Prissie felt glad she was not attired in it that unfortunate day when she sat in Mrs. Elliot-Smith's drawing-room; and yet-- and yet-- she knew that the poor, quaint, old-world jacket meant love and self-renunciation.

"Dear Aunt Raby!" whispered the girl.

Tears lay heavily on her eyelashes as she dropped asleep, with one arm thrown protectingly round her little sister Katie.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE FASHION OF THE DAY

A THICK mist lay over everything. Christmas had come and gone, and Priscilla's trunk was packed once more-- Aunt Raby's old-world jacket between folds of tissue-paper, lying on the top of other homely garments.

The little sisters were in bed and asleep and Aunt Raby lay on the sofa. Prissie was accustomed to her face now, so she did not turn it away from the light. The white lips, the chalky gray tint under the eyes, the deep furrows round the sunken temples were all familiar to the younger "Miss Peel." She had fitted once more into the old sordid life. She saw Hattie in her slipshod feet and Katie and Rose in their thin winter jackets, which did not half keep out the cold. She saw and partook of the scanty meals and tried to keep warm by the wretched fires. Once more she was part and parcel of the household. The children were so accustomed to her that they forgot she was going away again.

To-night, however, the fact was brought back to her. Katie cried when she saw the packed trunk. Hattie pouted and flopped herself about and became unmanageable. Rose put on her most discontented manner and voice, and finding that Prissie had earned no money during the past term, gave utterance to skeptical thoughts.

"Prissie just went away to have a good time, and she never meant to earn money, and she forgot all about them," grumbled the naughty little girl.

Hattie came up and pummeled Rose for her bad words. Katie cried afresh, and altogether the scene was most dismal.

Now, however, it was over. The children were in the land of happy dreams. They were eating their Christmas dinner over again and looking with ecstasy at their tiny, tiny Christmas gifts and listening once more to Prissie, who had a low, sweet voice and who was singing to them the old and beloved words:

"Peace and goodwill to men."

The children were happy in their dreams, and Prissie was standing by Aunt Raby's side.

"Why don't you sit down, child? You have done nothing but fidget, fidget for the last half-hour."

"I want to go out, Aunt Raby."

"To go out? Sakes! what for? And on such a night, too!"

"I want to see Mr. Hayes."

"Prissie, I think you have got a bee in your bonnet. You'll be lost in this mist."

"No, I won't. I missed Mr. Hayes to-day when he called, and I must see him before I go back to St. Benet's. I have a question or two to ask him, and I know every step of the way. Let me go, auntie, please, do!"

"You always were a wilful girl, Priscilla, and I think that college has made you more obstinate than ever. I suppose the half-mannish ways of all those girls tell upon you. There, if you must go-- do. I'm in no mood for arguing. I'll have a bit of a sleep while you are out: the muggy weather always makes me so drowsy."

Aunt Raby uttered a very weary yawn and turned her face from the light. Priscilla stepped into the hall, put on her waterproof and oldest hat and went out. She knew her way well to the little vicarage, built of gray stone and lying something like a small, daring fly against the brow of the hill. The little house looked as if any storm must detach it from its resting-place, but to-night there was no wind, only clinging mist and damp and thick fog.

Priscilla mounted the rough road which led to the vicarage, opened the white gate, walked up the gravel path and entered the little porch.

Her knock was answered by the vicar himself. He drew her into the house with an affectionate word of welcome, and soon she was sitting by his study fire, with hat and jacket removed.

In the vicar's eyes Priscilla was not at all a plain girl. He liked the rugged power which her face displayed; he admired the sensible lines of her mouth, and he prophesied great things from that brow, so calm, so broad, so full. Mr. Hayes had but a small respect for the roses and lilies of mere beauty. Mind was always more to him than matter. Some of the girls at St. Benet's, who thought very little of poor Priscilla, would have felt no small surprise had they known the high regard and even admiration this good man felt for her.

"I am glad you have called, Prissie," he said. "I was disappointed in not seeing you to-day. Well, my dear, do as well in the coming term as you did in the past. You have my best wishes."

"Thank you," said Prissie.

"You are happy in your new life, are you not, my dear child?"

"I am interested," said Priscilla in a low voice. Her eyes rested on her shabby dress as she spoke. She laid one hand over the other. She seemed to be weighing her words. "I am interested; sometimes I am absorbed. My new life fills my heart; it crowds into all my thoughts.

I have no room for Aunt Raby-- no room for my little sisters.

Everything is new to me-- everything fresh and broad. There are some trials, of course, and some unpleasantness; but, oh, the difference between here and there! Here it is so narrow, there one cannot help getting enlightenment, daily and hourly."

"Yes," said Mr. Hayes when Priscilla paused, "I expected you to say something of this kind. I knew you could not but feel the immense, the immeasurable change. But why do you speak in that complaining voice, Priscilla?"

Prissies' eyes were raised to his.

"Because Aunt Raby is ill, and it is wicked of me to forget her. It is mean and cowardly. I hate myself for it."

Mr. Hayes looked puzzled for a moment. Then his face cleared.

"My dear Prissie," he said, "I always knew there were depths of morbidness in you, but I did not suppose that you would sound them so quickly. If you are to grow up to be a wise and useful and helpful woman by and by, you must check this intense self-examination. Your feelings are the natural feelings of a girl who has entered upon a very charming life. You are meant to lead that life for the present; you are meant to do your duty in it. Don't worry, my dear. Go back to St. Benet's, and study well, and learn much, and gather plenty of experience for the future. If you fret about what cannot be helped, you will weaken your intellect and tire your heart. After all, Prissie, though you give much thought to St. Benet's, and though its ways are delightful to you, your love is still with the old friends, is it not?"