When she was alone, Maggie Oliphant sat down in her favourite chair, and covered her face with her hands. “It is horrible to listen to stories like that,” she murmured under her breath. “Such stories get on the nerves. I shall not sleep to-night. Fancy any people calling themselves ladies wanting meat, wanting clothes, wanting warmth. Oh, my God! this is horrible. Poor Prissie! Poor brave Prissie!” Maggie started from her chair and paced the length of her room once or twice. “I must help these people,” she said; “I must help this Aunt Raby, and those three little sisters. Penywern Cottage shall no longer be without coal, and food, and warmth. How shall I do this? One thing is quite evident – Prissie must not know. Prissie is as proud as I am. How shall I manage this?” She clasped her hands, her brow was contracted with the fulness of her thought. After a long while she left her room, and, going to the other end of the long corridor, knocked at Nancy Banister’s door. Nancy was within. It did not take Maggie long to tell the tale which she had just heard from Priscilla’s lips. Prissie had told her simple story with force, but it lost nothing in Maggie’s hands. She had a fine command of language, and she drew a picture of such pathos that Nancy’s honest blue eyes filled with tears.

“That dear little Prissie!” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know that she is dear,” said Maggie. “I don’t profess quite to understand her; however, that is not the point. The poverty at Penywern Cottage is an undoubted fact. It is also a fact that Prissie is forced to give up her classical education. She shall not! she has a genius for the old tongues. Now, Nancy, help me; use your common sense on my behalf. How am I to send money to Penywern Cottage?”

Nancy thought for several minutes.

“I have an idea,” she exclaimed at last.

“What is that?”

“I believe Mr Hammond could help us.”

Maggie coloured.

“How?” she asked. “Why should Geoffrey Hammond be dragged into Priscilla’s affairs? What can he possibly know about Penywern Cottage and the people who live in it?”

“Only this,” said Nancy: “I remember his once talking about that part of Devonshire where Prissie’s home is, and saying that his uncle has a parish there. Mr Hammond’s uncle is the man to help us.”

Miss Oliphant was silent for a moment.

“Very well,” she said; “will you write to Mr Hammond and ask him for his uncle’s address?”

“Why should I do this, Maggie? Geoffrey Hammond is your friend; he would think it strange for me to write.”

Maggie’s tone grew as cold as her expressive face had suddenly become. “I can write if you think it best,” she said; “but you are mistaken in supposing that Mr Hammond is any longer a person of special interest to me.”

“Oh, Maggie, Maggie, if you only would – ”

“Good-night, Nancy,” interrupted Maggie. She kissed her friend, and went back to her room. There she sat down before her bureau and prepared to write a letter. “I must not lose any time,” she said to herself; “I must help these people substantially; I must do something to rescue poor Prissie from a life of drudgery. Fancy Prissie, with her genius, living the life of an ordinary underpaid teacher: it is not to be thought of for a moment! Something must be done to put the whole family on a different footing, but that, of course, is for the future. From Priscilla’s account they want immediate aid. I have two five-pound notes in my purse: Geoffrey shall have them and enclose them to the clergyman who is his relation, and who lives near Priscilla’s home.”

Maggie wrote her letter rapidly. She thought it cold; she meant it to be a purely business note; she did not intend Hammond to see even the glimpse of her warm heart under the carefully studied words. “I am sick of money,” she said to him, “but to some people it is as the bread of life. Ask your friend to provide food and warmth without a moment’s delay for these poor people out of the trifle I enclose. Ask him also to write directly to me, for the ten pounds I now send is only the beginning of what I mean really to do to help them.”

When her letter was finished, Maggie put her hand in her pocket to take out her purse. It was not there. She searched on the table, looked under piles of books and papers, and presently found it. She unclasped the purse, and opened an inner pocket for the purpose of taking out two five-pound notes which she had placed there this morning. To her astonishment and perplexity, this portion of the purse now contained only one of the notes. Maggie felt her face turning crimson. Quick as a flash of lightning a horrible thought assailed her – Priscilla had been alone in her room for nearly an hour – Priscilla’s people were starving: had Priscilla taken the note?

“Oh, hateful!” said Maggie to herself; “what am I coming to, to suspect the brave, the noble – I won’t, I can’t. Oh, how shall I look her in the face and feel that I ever, even for a second, thought of her so dreadfully.” Maggie searched through her purse again. “Perhaps I dreamt that I put two notes here this morning,” she said to herself. “But no, it is no dream; I put two notes into this division of my purse, I put four sovereigns here; the sovereigns are safe – one of the notes is gone.”

She thought deeply for a few moments longer, then added a postscript to her letter: —

“I am very sorry, but I can only send you one note for five pounds to-night. Even this, however, is better than nothing. I will give further help as soon as I hear from your friend.” Maggie then folded her letter, addressed, stamped it, and took it downstairs.

Miss Oliphant was an heiress; she was also an orphan; her father and mother were mere memories to her; she had neither brothers nor sisters; she did not particularly like her guardian, who was old and worldly-wise, as different as possible from the bright, enthusiastic, impulsive girl. Mr Oliphant thought money the aim and object of life: when he spoke to Maggie about it, she professed to hate it. In reality she was indifferent to it; money was valueless to her because she had never felt its want.

She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking of Penywern Cottage, of tired Aunt Raby, of the little girls who wanted food, and education, and care, and love. After a time she fell asleep. In her sleep she ceased to think of Priscilla’s relations: all her thoughts were with Priscilla herself. She dreamt that she saw Priscilla move stealthily in her room, take up her purse with wary fingers, open it, remove a note for five pounds, and hide the purse once more under books and papers.

When Maggie awoke, she professed not to believe in her dream; but, nevertheless, she had a headache, and her heart was heavy within her.

At breakfast that morning Miss Oliphant made a rather startling announcement. “I wish to say something,” she remarked, in her full, rich voice. “A strange thing happened to me last night. I am not accounting for it; I am casting no aspersions on anyone; I don’t even intend to investigate the matter; still, I wish publicly to state a fact – a five-pound note has been taken out of my purse!”

There were no dons or lecturers present when Miss Oliphant made this startling announcement, but Nancy Banister, Rosalind Merton, Priscilla Peel, Miss Day, Miss Marsh, and several other girls were all in the room; they, each of them, looked at the speaker with startled and anxious inquiry.

Maggie herself did not return the glances; she was lazily helping herself to some marmalade.

“How perfectly shameful!” burst at last from the lips of Miss Day. “You have lost five pounds, Miss Oliphant; you are positively certain that five pounds have been taken out of your purse. Where was your purse?” Maggie was spreading the marmalade on her bread-and-butter; her eyes were still fixed on her plate. “I don’t wish a fuss made,” she said.

“Oh, that’s all very fine!” continued Miss Day; “but if five pounds are lost out of your purse, someone has taken them! Someone, therefore, whether servant or student, is a thief. I am not narrow-minded or prudish; but I confess I draw the line at thieves.”

“So do I,” said Maggie, in an icy tone; “still, I don’t mean to make a fuss.”

“But where was your purse, Maggie dear?” asked Nancy Banister; “was it in your pocket?”

“No. I found it last night in my bureau, under some books and papers.” Maggie rose from the table as she spoke. With a swift flash her brown eyes sought Priscilla’s face; she had not meant to look at her, she did not want to; but a fascination she could not control obliged her to dart this one glance of inquiry.

Prissie’s eyes met hers. Their expression was anxious, puzzled, but there was not a trace of guilt or confusion in them. “I don’t know how that money could have been taken, Maggie,” she said, “for I was in your room studying my Greek.” Prissie sighed when she mentioned her Greek. “I was in your room studying Greek all the evening; no one could have come to take the money.”

“It is gone, however,” said Maggie. She spoke with new cheerfulness. The look on Prissie’s face, the tone in her voice, made Maggie blush at ever having suspected her. “It is gone,” she said, in quite a light and cheerful way, “but I am really sorry I mentioned it. As I said just now, I don’t intend to investigate the matter. I may have fallen asleep and taken the five-pound note out in a dream and torn it up, or put it on the fire. Anyhow, it has vanished, and that is all I have to say. Come, Prissie, I want to hear what Miss Heath said to you last night.”

“No,” suddenly exclaimed Annie Day, “Miss Peel, you must not leave the room just now. You have made a statement, Miss Oliphant, which I for one do not intend to pass over without at least asking a few questions. You did not tear up that note in a dream. If it is lost, someone took it. We are St. Benet’s girls, and we don’t choose to have this kind of thing said to us. The thief must confess, and the note must be returned.”

“All right,” said Maggie, “I sha’n’t object to recovering my property. Priscilla, I shall be walking in the grounds; you can come to me when your council of war is over.”

The moment Maggie left the room, Rosalind Merton made a remark. “Miss Peel is the only person who can explain the mystery,” she said.

“What do you mean?” asked Priscilla.

“Why, you confess yourself that you were in Miss Oliphant’s room the greater part of the evening.”

“I confess it?” remarked Priscilla; “that is a curious phrase to apply to a statement. I confess nothing. I was in Maggie’s room, but what of that? When people confess things,” she added, with a naïveté which touched one or two of the girls, “they generally have done something wrong. Now, what was there wrong in my sitting in my friend’s room?”

“Oh, Miss Oliphant is ‘your friend’?” said Rosalind.

“Of course, of course.” But here a memory came over Priscilla; she remembered Maggie’s words the night before – “You were my friend.” For the first time her voice faltered, and the crimson flush of distress covered her face. Rosalind’s cruel eyes were fixed on her.

“Let me speak now,” interrupted Miss Day. She gave Rosalind a piercing glance which caused her, in her turn, to colour violently. “It is just this, Miss Peel,” said Annie Day: “you will excuse my speaking bluntly, but you are placed in a very unpleasant position.”

“I? How?” asked Prissie.

“Oh, you great baby!” burst from Rosalind again.

“Please don’t speak to me in that tone, Miss Merton,” said Priscilla, with a new dignity, which became her well. “Now, Miss Day, what have you to say?”

To Prissie’s surprise, at this juncture, Nancy Banister suddenly left her seat, and came and stood at the back of her chair.

“I am on your side whatever happens,” she remarked.

“Thank you,” said Prissie.

“Now, please, Miss Day.”

“You must know who took the note,” said Annie Day.

“I assure you I don’t; I can’t imagine how it has disappeared. Not a soul came into the room while I was there. I did go away once for about three minutes to fetch my Lexicon; but I don’t suppose anyone came into Miss Oliphant’s room during those few minutes – there was no one about to come.”

“Oh, you left the room for about three minutes?”

“Perhaps three – perhaps not so many. I had left my Lexicon in the library; I went to fetch it.”

“Oh,” said Rosalind, suddenly taking the words out of Miss Day’s mouth, “when did you invent this little fiction?”

Prissie’s eyes seemed suddenly to blaze fire; for the first time she perceived the drift of the cruel suspicion, which her fellow-students were seeking to cast upon her. “How wicked you are!” she said to Rosalind. “Why do you look at me like that? Miss Day, why do you smile? Why do you all smile? Oh, Nancy,” added poor Prissie, springing to her feet, and looking full into Nancy’s troubled eyes, “what is the matter? – am I in a dream?”

“It is all very fine to be theatrical,” said Miss Day, “but the fact is, Miss Peel, you are not at all popular enough at St. Benet’s to induce any of us to consent to live under a ban for your sake. Miss Oliphant has lost her money. You say that you spent some time in her room; the purse was on her bureau. Miss Oliphant is rich, she is also generous, she says openly that she does not intend to investigate the matter. No doubt, if you confess your weakness and return the money, she will forgive you, and not report this disgraceful proceeding to the college authorities.” While Miss Day was speaking, some heavy panting breaths came two or three times from Priscilla’s lips. Her face had turned cold and white; but her eyes blazed like living coals.

“Now I understand,” she said, slowly; “you think – you think that I – I stole a five-pound note from my friend; you think that I went into her room and opened her purse, and took away her money; you think that of me – you! I scorn you all, I defy you, I dare you to prove your dreadful words! I am going to Miss Heath this moment; she shall protect me from this dishonour.”

Chapter Twenty Six
In the Ante-Chapel of St. Hilda’s

Priscilla ran blindly down the corridor which opened into the wide entrance-hall. Groups of girls were standing about; they stared as the wild-looking apparition rushed past them: Prissie was blind to their puzzled and curious glances. She wanted to see Miss Heath; she had a queer kind of instinct, rather than any distinct impression, that in Miss Heath’s presence she would be protected, that Miss Heath would know what to say, would know how to dispel the cloud of disgrace which had suddenly been cast over her like a cloak.

“Is there anything wrong, Miss Peel?” said gentle little Ada Hardy, coming up and speaking to her affectionately. Miss Hardy stood right in Prissie’s path, barring her way for a moment, and causing her, in spite of herself, to stop her headlong rush to the Vice-Principal’s room. Priscilla put up her hand to her brow; she looked in a dazed sort of way at the kind-hearted girl.

“What is the matter – can I help you?” repeated Ada Hardy.

“You can’t help me,” said Prissie. “I want to see Miss Heath; let me pass.” She ran forward again, and some other girls, coming out of the dining-hall, now came up to Ada and distracted her attention.

Miss Heath’s private sitting-room was on the ground floor. This lovely room has been described before. It was open now, and Prissie went in without knocking; she thought she would see Miss Heath sitting as she usually was at this hour, either reading or answering letters; she was not in the room. Priscilla felt too wild and impetuous to consider any action carefully, just then; she ran up at once to the electric-bell, and pressed the button for quite a quarter of a minute. A maidservant came quickly to answer the summons. She thought Miss Heath had sent for her, and stared at the excited girl.

“I want to see Miss Heath,” said Priscilla; “please ask her to come to me here; say Miss Peel wants to see her – Priscilla Peel wants to see her, very, very badly, in her own sitting-room at once. Ask her to come to me at once.”

The presence of real tragedy always inspires respect; there was no question with regard to the genuineness of Prissie’s sorrow just then.

“I will try and find Miss Heath, Miss, and ask her to come to you without delay,” answered the maid. She softly withdrew, closing the door after her. Priscilla went and stood on the hearthrug. Raising her eyes for a moment, they rested on a large and beautiful platinotype of G.F. Watts’s picture of “Hope.” The last time she had visited Miss Heath in that room, Prissie had been taken by the kind Vice-Principal to look at the picture, and some of its symbolism was explained to her. “That globe on which the figure of Hope sits,” Miss Heath had said, “is meant to represent the world. Hope is blindfolded in order more effectually to shut out the sights which might distract her. See the harp in her hand, observe her rapt attitude – she is listening to melody – she hears, she rejoices, and yet the harp out of which she makes music only possesses one string – all the rest are broken.” Miss Heath said nothing further, and Prissie scarcely took in the full meaning of the picture that evening. Now she looked again, and a passionate agony swept over her. “Hope has one string still left to her harp with which she can play music,” murmured the young girl; “but oh! there are times when all the strings of the harp are broken; then, Hope dies.”

The room door was opened, and the servant reappeared.

“I am very sorry, Miss,” she said, “but Miss Heath has gone out for the morning. Would you like to see anyone else?”

Priscilla gazed at the messenger in a dull sort of way. “I can’t see Miss Heath?” she murmured.

“No, Miss, she is out.”

“Very well.”

“Can I do anything for you, Miss?”

“No, thank you.”

The servant went away with a puzzled expression on her face.

“That plain young lady, who is so awful poor – Miss Peel, I mean – seems in a sad taking,” she said by-and-by to her fellow-servants.

Priscilla, left alone in Miss Heath’s sitting-room, stood still for a moment, then, running upstairs to her room, she put on her hat and jacket, and went out. She was expected to attend two lectures that morning, and the hour for the first had almost arrived. Maggie Oliphant was coming into the house when Prissie ran past her.

“My dear!” she exclaimed, shocked at the look on Priscilla’s face. “Come here; I want to speak to you.”

“I can’t – don’t stop me.”

“But where are you going? Mr Kenyon has just arrived. I am on my way to the lecture-hall now.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“No.”

This last word reached Miss Oliphant from a distance; Prissie had already almost reached the gates.

Maggie stood still for a moment, half inclined to follow the excited, frantic-looking girl, but that queer inertia, which was part of her complex character, came over her. She shrugged her shoulders, the interest died out of her face; she walked slowly through the entrance-hall and down one of the side corridors to the lecture-room.

When the Greek lecture had come to an end, Nancy Banister came up and slipped her hand through Maggie’s arm.

“What is the matter, Maggie?” she asked, “you look very white and tired.”

“I have a headache,” answered Maggie. “If it does not get better, I shall send for a carriage and take a drive.”

“May I come with you?”

“No, dear Nancy, when I have these bad headaches it is almost necessary to me to be alone.”

“Would it not be better for you to go and lie down in your room?”

“I, to lie down in my room with a headache like this? – no, thank you.” Maggie shuddered as she spoke. Nancy felt her friend’s arm shiver as she leant on it.

“You are really ill, darling!” she said, in a tone of sympathy and fondness.

“I have not felt right for a week, and am worse to-day, but I daresay a drive in this nice frosty air will set me up.”

“I am going to Kingsdene. Shall I order a carriage for you?”

“I wish you would.”

“Maggie, did you notice that Priscilla was not at her lecture?”

“She was not. I met her rushing away, I think, to Kingsdene; she seemed put out about something.”

“Poor little thing; no wonder – those horrid girls!”

“Oh, Nancy, if there’s anything unpleasant, don’t tell me just now; my head aches so dreadfully, I could scarcely hear bad news.”

“You are working too hard, Maggie.”

“I am not; it is the only thing left to me.”

“Do you know that we are to have a rehearsal of The Princess to-night? If you are as ill as you look now, you can’t be present.”

“I will be present. Do you think I can’t force myself to do what is necessary?”

“Oh, I am well acquainted with the power of your will,” answered Nancy, with a laugh. “Well, good-bye dear, I am off; you may expect the carriage to arrive in half an hour.”

Meanwhile, Priscilla, still blind, deaf, and dumb with misery, ran, rather than walked, along the road which leads to Kingsdene. The day was lovely, with little faint wafts of spring in the air; the sky was pale blue and cloudless; there was a slight hoar frost on the grass. Priscilla chose to walk on it, rather than on the dusty road; it felt crisp under her tread.

She had not the least idea why she was going to Kingsdene; her wish was to walk, and walk, and walk until sheer fatigue, caused by long-continued motion, brought to her temporary ease and forgetfulness.

Prissie was a very strong girl, and she knew she must walk for a long time; her feet must traverse many miles before she effected her object. Just as she was passing St. Hilda’s College she came face to face with Hammond. He was in his college cap and gown, and was on his way to morning prayers in the chapel. Hammond had received Maggie’s letter that morning, and this fact caused him to look at Priscilla with new interest. On another occasion, he would have passed her with a hurried bow. Now he stopped to speak. The moment he caught sight of her face, he forgot everything else in his distress at the expression of misery which it wore.

“Where are you going, Miss Peel?” he asked; “you appear to be flying from something, or, perhaps, it is to something. Must you run? See, you have almost knocked me down.” He chose light words on purpose, hoping to make Prissie smile.

“I am going for a walk,” she said; “please let me pass.”

“I am afraid you are in trouble,” he replied then, seeing that Priscilla’s mood must be taken seriously.

His sympathy gave the poor girl a momentary thrill of comfort; she raised her eyes to his face, and spoke huskily.

“A dreadful thing has happened to me,” she said.

The chapel bell stopped as she spoke; groups of men, all in their caps and gowns, hurried by; several of them looked from Hammond to Priscilla, and smiled.

“I must go to chapel now,” he said; “but I should like to speak to you. Can I not see you after morning prayers? Would you not come to the service? You might sit in the ante-chapel, if you did not want to come into the chapel itself. You had much better do that. Whatever your trouble is, the service at St. Hilda’s ought to sustain you. Please wait for me in the ante-chapel. I shall look for you there after prayers.”

He ran off just in time to take his own place in the chapel, before the doors were shut, and curtains drawn.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Priscilla followed him. She entered the ante-chapel, sat down on a bench not far from the entrance door, and when the service began, she dropped on her knees, and covered her face with her hands.

The music came to her in soft waves of far-off harmony. The doors which divided the inner chapel from the outer gave it a faint sound, as if it were miles away; each note, however, was distinct; no sound was lost. The boys’ voices rose high in the air; they were angelic in their sweetness. Prissie was incapable, at that moment, of taking in the meaning of the words she heard, but the lovely sounds comforted her; the dreadful weight was lifted, or, at least, partially lifted, from her brain; she felt as if a hand had been laid on her hot, angry heart; as if a gentle, a very gentle, touch was soothing the sorrow there.

“I am ready now,” said Hammond, when the service was over; “will you come?”

She rose without a word, and went out with him into the quadrangle; they walked down the High Street.

“Are you going back to St. Benet’s?” he asked.

“Oh, no – oh, no!”

”‘Yes,’ you mean; I will walk with you as far as the gates.”

“I am not going back.”

“Pardon me,” said Hammond, “you must go back; so young a girl cannot take long walks alone. If one of your fellow-students were with you, it would be different.”

“I would not walk with one of them now for the world.”

“Not with Miss Oliphant?”

“With her, least of all.”

“That is a pity,” said Hammond, gravely, “for no one can feel more kindly towards you.”

Prissie made no response.

They walked to the end of the High Street.

“This is your way,” said Hammond, “down this quiet lane; we shall get to St. Benet’s in ten minutes.”

“I am not going there. Good-bye, Mr Hammond.”

“Miss Peel, you must forgive my appearing to interfere with you, but it is absolutely wrong for a young girl, such as you are, to wander about alone in the vicinity of a large university town. Let me treat you as my sister for once, and insist on accompanying you to the gates of the college.”

Prissie looked up at him. “It is very good of you to take any notice of me,” she said, after a pause. “You won’t ever again after – after you know what I have been accused of. If you wish me to go back to St. Benet’s, I will; after all, it does not matter, for I can go out by-and-by somewhere else.”

Hammond smiled to himself at Prissie’s very qualified submission. Just then a carriage came up and drove slowly past them. Miss Oliphant, in her velvet and sables, was seated in it. Hammond sprang forward with heightened colour, and an eager exclamation on his lips. She did not motion to the coachman to stop, however, but gave the young man a careless, cold bow. She did not notice Priscilla at all. The carriage quickly drove out of sight, and Hammond, after a pause, said gravely —

“You must tell me your trouble, Miss Peel.”

“I will,” said Prissie. “Someone has stolen a five-pound note out of Maggie Oliphant’s purse; she missed it late at night, and spoke about it at breakfast this morning. I said that I did not know how it could have been taken, for I had been studying my Greek in her room during the whole afternoon. Maggie spoke about her loss in the dining-hall, and after she left the room Miss Day and Miss Merton accused me of having stolen the money.” Priscilla stopped speaking abruptly; she turned her head away; a dull red suffused her face and neck.

“Well?” said Hammond.

“That is all. The girls at St. Benet’s think I am a thief. They think I took my kindest friend’s money. I have nothing more to say: nothing possibly could be more dreadful to me. I shall speak to Miss Heath, and ask leave to go away from the college at once.”

“You certainly ought not to do that.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you went from St. Benet’s now, people might be induced to think that you really were guilty.”

“But they think that now.”

“I am quite certain that those students whose friendship is worth retaining think nothing of the sort.”

“Why are you certain?” asked Prissie, turning swiftly round, and a sudden ray of sunshine illuminating her whole face. “Do you think that I am not a thief?”

“I am as certain of that fact as I am of my own identity.”

“Oh!” said the girl, with a gasp. She made a sudden dart forward, and seizing Hammond’s hand, squeezed it passionately between both her own.

“And Miss Oliphant does not think of you as a thief,” continued Hammond.

“I don’t know – I can’t say.”

“You have no right to be so unjust to her,” he replied, with fervour.

“I don’t care so much for the opinions of the others now,” said Prissie; “you believe in me.” She walked erect again; her footsteps were light as if she trod on air. “You are a very good man,” she said; “I would do anything for you – anything.”

Hammond smiled. Her innocence, her enthusiasm, her childishness were too apparent for him to take her words for more than they were worth.

“Do you know,” he said, after a pause, “that I am in a certain measure entitled to help you? In the first place, Miss Oliphant takes a great interest in you.”

“You are mistaken, she does not – not now.”

“I am not mistaken; she takes a great interest in you. Priscilla, you must have guessed – you have guessed – what Maggie Oliphant is to me; I should like, therefore, to help her friend. That is one tie between us; but there is another – Mr Hayes, your parish clergyman – ”

“Oh!” said Prissie, “do you know Mr Hayes?”

“I not only know him,” replied Hammond, smiling, “but he is my uncle. I am going to see him this evening.”

“Oh!”

“Of course, I shall tell him nothing of this, but I shall probably talk of you. Have you a message for him?”

“I can send him no message to-day.”

They had now reached the college gates. Hammond took Priscilla’s hand. “Good-bye,” he said; “I believe in you, and so does Miss Oliphant. If her money was stolen, the thief was certainly not the most upright, the most sincere girl in the college. My advice to you, Miss Peel, is to hold your head up bravely, to confront this charge by that sense of absolute innocence which you possess. In the meanwhile, I have not the least doubt that the real thief will be found. Don’t make a fuss; don’t go about in wild despair – have faith in God.” He pressed her hand, and turned away.

Priscilla took her usual place that day at the luncheon table. The girls who had witnessed her wild behaviour in the morning watched her in perplexity and astonishment. She ate her food with appetite; her face looked serene – all the passion and agony had left it.

Rosalind Merton ventured on a sly allusion to the scene of the morning. Priscilla did not make the smallest comment; her face remained pale, her eyes untroubled. There was a new dignity about her.