Mr. Hayes allowed her to talk with him, even to argue points with him.  He always liked her to draw her own conclusions; he encouraged her really original ideas; he was proud of his pupil, and he grew fond of her.  It was not Priscilla’s way to say a word about it, but she soon loved the old clergyman as if he were her father.

Some time between her sixteenth and seventeenth birthday that awakening came which altered the whole course of her life.  It was a summer’s day Priscilla was seated in the old wainscoted parlor of the cottage, devouring a book lent to her by Mr. Hayes on the origin of the Greek drama and occasionally bending to kiss little Katie, who sat curled up in her arms, when the two elder children rushed in with the information that Aunt Raby had suddenly lain flat down in the hayfield, and they thought she was asleep.

Prissie tumbled her book in one direction and Katie in the other.  In a moment she was kneeling by Miss Peel’s side.

“What is it, Aunt Raby?” she asked tenderly.  “Are you ill?”

The tired woman opened her eyes slowly.

“I think I fainted, dear love,” she said.  “Perhaps it was the heat of the sun.”

Priscilla managed to get her back into the house.  She grew better presently and seemed something like herself, but that evening the aunt and niece had a long talk, and the next day Prissie went up to see Mr. Hayes.

“I am interested,” he said when he saw her enter the room, “to see how you have construed that passage in Cicero, Priscilla.  You know I warned you of its difficulty.”

“Oh, please, sir, don’t,” said Prissie, holding up her hand with an impatient movement, which she now and then found herself indulging in.  “I don’t care if Cicero is at the bottom of the sea.  I don’t want to speak about him or think about him.  His day is over, mine is—­ oh, sir, I beg your pardon.”

“Granted, my dear child.  Sit down, Prissie.  I will forgive your profane words about Cicero, for I see you are excited.  What is the matter?”

“I want you to help me, Mr. Hayes.  Will you help me?  You have always been my dear friend, my good friend.”

“Of course I will help you.  What is wrong?  Speak to me fully.”

“Aunt Raby fainted in the hayfield yesterday.”

“Indeed?  It was a warm day; I am truly concerned.  Would she like to see me?  Is she better to-day?”

“She is quite well to-day—­ quite well for the time.”

“My dear Priscilla, what a tragic face!  Your Aunt Raby is not the first woman who has fainted and got out of her faint again and been none the worse.”

“That is just the point, Mr. Hayes.  Aunt Raby has got out of her faint, but she is the worse.”

Mr. Hayes looked hard into his pupil’s face.  There was no beauty in it.  The mouth was wide, the complexion dull, the features irregular.  Even her eyes—­ and perhaps they were Prissie’s best point—­ were neither large nor dark; but an expression now filled those eyes and lingered round that mouth which made the old rector feel solemn.