careworn face, thoughtful, grave, with anxious lines already deepening
the seriousness of the too serious mouth.

Priscilla cut some bread and butter and poured out some tea for her
aunt and for herself.

Miss Rachel Peel was not the least like her niece. She was short and
rather dumpy. She had a sensible, downright sort of face, and she took
life with a gravity which would have oppressed a less earnest spirit
than Priscilla's.

"Well, I'm tired," she said, when the meal was over. "I suppose I've
done a great deal more than I thought I had all day. I think I'll go
to bed early. We have said all our last words, haven't we, Priscilla?"

"Pretty nearly, Aunt Raby."

"Oh, yes, that reminds me-- there's one thing more. Your fees will be
all right, of course, and your traveling, and I have arranged about
your washing money."

"Yes, Aunt Raby, oh, yes; everything is all right."

Priscilla fidgeted, moved her position a little and looked longingly
out of the window.

"You must have a little money over and above these things," proceeded
Miss Peel in her sedate voice. "I am not rich, but I'll allow you--
yes, I'll manage to allow you two shillings a week. That will be for
pocket-money, you understand, child."