"
Priscilla slowly and stiffly withdrew her hands; her lips moved. She
was repeating Miss Oliphant's words under her breath:
"At one time we were friends."
"Won't you speak?" said Maggie impatiently.
"Oh, yes, I'll speak, I'll tell you the reason. You won't understand,
but you had better know--" Prissie paused again; she seemed to swallow
something; her next words came out slowly with great difficulty: "When
I went home for the Christmas recess I found Aunt Raby worse. You
don't know what my home is like, Miss Oliphant; it is small and poor.
At home we are often cold and often hungry. I have three little
sisters, and they want clothes and education; they want training, they
want love, they want care. Aunt Raby is too weak to do much for them
now; she is very, very ill. You have not an idea-- not an idea-- Miss
Oliphant, in your wealth and your luxury, what the poverty of Penywern
Cottage is like. What does such poverty mean? How shall I describe it
to you? We are sometimes glad of a piece of bread; butter is a luxury;
meat we scarcely taste." Prissie again broke off to think and consider
her next words. Maggie, whose sympathies were always keenly aroused by
any real emotion, tried once again to take her hands; Prissie put them
behind her.
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