"Yes, I do. You have the first right to me. If you want me, I'll
stay."
"You'll give up that outlandish Greek, and all that babel of foreign
tongues, and your fine friends, and your grand college, and you hopes
of being a famous woman by and by? Do you mean this, Prissie,
seriously?"
"Yes, if you want me."
"And you say I have the first claim on you?"
"I do."
"Then you're wrong; I haven't the first claim on you." Aunt Raby
tumbled off the sofa and managed to stand on her trembling old legs.
"Give me your arm, child," she said; "and-- and give me a kiss,
Prissie. You're a good girl and worthy of your poor father. He was a
bookworm, and you are another. But he was an excellent man, and you
resemble him. I'm glad I took you home and did my best for you. I'll
tell him about you when I get to heaven. He'll be right pleased, I
know. My sakes, child! I don't want the little bit of earth's rest.
I'm going to have a better sort than that. And you think I've the
first claim on you? A poor old body like me. There, help me up to bed,
my dear.
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