He took one of the girl's thin unformed hands between his own.

"My dear child," he said, "something weighs on your mind. Tell your
old friend-- your almost father-- all that is in your heart."

Thus begged to make a confidence, Priscilla did tell a commonplace,
and yet tragic, story. Aunt Raby was affected with an incurable
illness. It would not kill her soon; she might live for years, but
every year she would grow a little weaker and a little less capable of
toil. As long as she lived the little farm belonged to her, but
whenever she died it would pass to a distant cousin. Whenever Aunt
Raby died, Priscilla and her three sisters would be penniless.

"So I have come to you," continued Prissie, "to say that I must take
steps at once to enable me to earn money. I must support Hattie and
Rose and Katie whenever Aunt Raby goes. I must earn money as soon as
it is possible for a girl to do so, and I must stop dreaming and
thinking of nothing but books, for perhaps books and I will have
little to say to each other in future."

"That would be sad," replied Mr. Hayes, "for that would be taking a
directly opposite direction to the path which Providence clearly
intends you to walk in."

Priscilla raised her eyes and looked earnestly at the old rector.
Then, clasping her hands tightly together, she said with suppressed
passion:

"Why do you encourage me to be selfish, Mr. Hayes?"