Would she like to
see me? Is she better to-day?"
"She is quite well to-day-- quite well for the time."
"My dear Priscilla, what a tragic face! Your Aunt Raby is not the
first woman who has fainted and got out of her faint again and been
none the worse."
"That is just the point, Mr. Hayes. Aunt Raby has got out of her
faint, but she is the worse."
Mr. Hayes looked hard into his pupil's face. There was no beauty in
it. The mouth was wide, the complexion dull, the features irregular.
Even her eyes-- and perhaps they were Prissie's best point-- were
neither large nor dark; but an expression now filled those eyes and
lingered round that mouth which made the old rector feel solemn.
He took one of the girl's thin unformed hands between his own.
"My dear child," he said, "something weighs on your mind. Tell your
old friend-- your almost father-- all that is in your heart."
Thus begged to make a confidence, Priscilla did tell a commonplace,
and yet tragic, story. Aunt Raby was affected with an incurable
illness. It would not kill her soon; she might live for years, but
every year she would grow a little weaker and a little less capable of
toil. As long as she lived the little farm belonged to her, but
whenever she died it would pass to a distant cousin.
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