"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.
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