AN UNWILLING AT HOME

MOST of the girls who sat at those dinner-tables had fringed or
tousled or curled locks. Priscilla's were brushed simply away from her
broad forehead. After saying her last words, she bent her head low
over her plate and longed even for the protection of a fringe to hide
her burning blushes. Her momentary courage had evaporated; she was
shocked at having betrayed herself to a stranger; her brief fit of
passion left her stiffer and shyer than ever. Blinding tears rushed to
Priscilla's eyes, and her terror was that they would drop on to her
plate. Suppose some of those horrid girls saw her crying? Hateful
thought. She would rather die than show emotion before them.

At this moment a soft, plump little hand was slipped into hers and the
sweetest of voices said:

"I am so sorry anything has seemed unkind to you. Believe me, we are
not what you imagine. We have our fun and our prejudices, of course,
but we are not what you think we are."

Priscilla could not help smiling, nor could she resist slightly
squeezing the fingers which touched hers.

"You are not unkind, I know," she answered; and she ate the rest of
her dinner in a comforted frame of mind.

After dinner one of the lecturers who resided at Heath Hall, a
pleasant, bright girl of two- or three-and-twenty, came and introduced
herself, and presently took Priscilla with her to her own room, to
talk over the line of study which the young girl proposed to take up.