She could not help gazing at that scroll
of briar-roses; she could not help thinking of the hand that had
painted the flowers, of the girl whose presence had once made the room
in which she now lay so charming.
Priscilla had not yet been twelve hours at St. Benet's, and yet almost
every student she had met had spoken of Annabel Lee-- had spoken of
her with interest, with regret. One girl had gone further than this;
she had breathed her name with bitter sorrow.
Priscilla wished she had not been put into this room. She felt
absolutely nervous; she had a sense of usurping some one else's place,
of turning somebody else out into the cold. She did not believe in
ghosts, but she had an uncomfortable sensation, and it would not have
greatly surprised her if Annabel had come gliding back in the night
watches to put the finishing touches to those scrolls of wild flowers
which ornamented the panels of the doors, and to the design of the
briar-rose which ran round the frieze of the room. Annabel might come
in, and pursue this work in stealthy spirit fashion, and then glide up
to her, and ask her to get out of this little white bed, and let the
strange visitor, to whom it had once belonged, rest in it herself once
more.
Annabel Lee! It was a queer name-- a wild, bewitching sort of a name--
the name of a girl in a song.
Pages:
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49