THE routine of life at St. Benet's was something as follows:

The dressing-bell was rung at seven, and all the students were expected to meet in the chapel for prayers at eight. Nothing was said if they did not appear; no reproofs were uttered and no inquiries made; but the good-fellowship between the students and the dons was so apparent in the three halls that known wishes were always regarded, and, as a rule, there were few absentees.

The girls went to chapel in their white-straw sailor-hats, simply trimmed with a broad band of ribbon of the college colors, green with a narrow stripe of gold. Breakfast immediately followed chapel; tea and coffee and different cold meats were placed on the side-tables, and the girls helped themselves to what they pleased.

The great event at breakfast was the post. Each student, when she entered the breakfast-hall, would make an eager rush to the side-table where the letters were neatly placed. During breakfast these were read and chatted over. The whole meal was most informal and seldom lasted more than a quarter of an hour.

After breakfast the notice-board in the large entrance-hall was visited and eagerly scanned, for it contained a detailed account of the hours for the different lectures and the names of the lecturers who would instruct the students during the day. By the side of the large official notice-board hung another, which was read with quite as deep interest. This contained particulars of the meetings of the different clubs and societies for pleasure or profit got up by the girls themselves.

On the morning after her arrival Priscilla, with the other students, read the contents of these two boards, and then, in the company of a fresher nearly as shy as herself, she wandered about the lovely grounds which surrounded Heath Hall until nine o'clock, when lectures began.

Lectures continued without interruption until lunchtime, a meal which was taken very much when the girls pleased. The time allowed for this light midday refreshment was from half-past twelve to two. The-afternoons were mostly given up to games and gymnastics, although occasionally there were more lectures, and the more studious of the girls spent a considerable part of the time studying in their own rooms.

Tea was the convivial meal of the day. To this the girls invited outside friends and acquaintances, and, as a rule, they always took it in their own rooms.

Dinner was at half-past six, and from half-past seven to half-past nine was usually the time when the different clubs and societies met.

There was a regularity and yet a freedom about the life; invisible bounds were prescribed, beyond which no right-minded or conscientious girl cared to venture, but the rules were really very few. Students might visit their friends in Kingsdene and receive them at the college. They might entertain them at luncheon or dinner or at tea in their own rooms at a fixed charge, and provided the friends left at a certain hour, and the girls themselves asked for leave of absence when they wished to remain out, and mentioned the place to which they proposed to go, no questions were asked and no objections offered.

They were expected to return to the college not later than eleven at night, and one invitation to go out in the week was, as a rule, the most they ever accepted.

Into this life Priscilla came, fresh from the Devonshire farm and from all the pursuits and interests which had hitherto formed her world. She had made a very firm niche for herself in Aunt Raby's old cottage, and the dislodgment therefrom caused her for the time such mental disquiet and so many nervous and queer sensations that her pain was often acute and her sense of awkwardness considerable.

Priscilla's best in her early life always seemed but a poor affair, and she certainly neither looked nor was at her best at first here. After a few days, however, she fitted into her new grooves, took up the line of study which she intended to pursue and was quickly absorbed in all the fascinations which it offered to a nature like hers.

Her purse was restored to her on the morning after her arrival, and neither Maggie Oliphant nor Nancy Banister ever guessed that she had overheard some words of theirs on the night of her arrival, and that these had put bitterness into her heart and nearly destroyed her faith in her fellow-students. Both Maggie and Nance made several overtures of kindness to Prissie, but the cold manner which was more or less habitual to her never thawed, and, after a time, they left her alone. There is no saying what might have happened to Prissie had she never overheard this conversation. As it was, however, after the first shock it gave her courage.

She said to herself:

"I should think very little of myself if I did not despise a girl like Miss Oliphant. Is it likely I should care to imitate one whom I despise? There was a brief, dreadful hour when I absolutely pined to have pretty things in my room as she has in hers; now I can do without them. My room shall remain bare and unadorned. In this state it will at least look unique."

It did. The other students who lived in the same corridor came to visit Priscilla in the free and easy manner which characterized them and made remarks the reverse of flattering. When was she going to put her pictures up? Miss Day would be delighted to help her whenever she chose to do it. When did she intend to go down to Kingsdene to order her easy-chairs and little Japanese tables, and rugs, and the other small but necessary articles which would be required to make her room habitable?

For several days Priscilla turned these inquiries aside. She blushed, stammered, looked awkward and spoke of something else. At last, however, she summoned up courage, and, once for all, delivered herself from her tormentors. She did that remarkably brave thing which sometimes very nervous people can brace themselves to do.

It was evening and Miss Day, Miss Marsh and Nancy Banister had all come in for a few minutes to see Priscilla on their way to their own rooms.

"Do come and cocoa with me to-night, Miss Peel," said Miss Day. "You're so dreadfully unsociable, not a bit like an ordinary St. Benet's girl. If you go on in this fashion, you'll be moped to death before your first term is over."

"I am accustomed to a very quiet life," responded Priscilla, "and I want to work; I have come here to work."

"Dear, dear! any one would suppose you were going in for a tripos. If this were your last term I could understand it— but your first!"

It was Miss Marsh who said these words. She was a bright-eyed, merry-looking girl, the reverse of over-studious herself.

"Oh, come along, dear; I'll give you such a delicious cup of cocoa," said Miss Day.

She crossed the room and tried to link her hand affectionately in Prissie's arm. Miss Peel drew back a step.

"Thank you," she said, "but I— I— cannot come."

"I must say you have a blunt way of refusing," said Miss Day. She felt inclined to be offended, but Nancy Banister, who was standing by and had not hitherto spoken, bestowed a quick glance of approval on Priscilla and then said something soothing to Miss Day.

"May I cocoa with you instead, Annie?" she said. "I am afraid no one can accuse me of killing myself with work, but we all respect earnest workers— we must. It is for them St. Benet's is really meant. It was endowed for them, and built for them, and we poor drones must not throw disparaging remarks on the busy bees."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Miss Marsh; "St. Benet's was made for sociability as well as study, and I have no patience with the students who don't try to combine the two. By the way," she added, turning round and speaking in a rather impertinent voice to Priscilla, "I sent you a message to say I was going down to Kingsdene this afternoon and would be happy to take you with me if you would care to visit Spilman's."

"Thank you," said Priscilla, "I got your note just too late to answer it. I was going to speak to you about it," she added.

"Then you would have come?"

Priscilla's face grew very red.

"No, I should not have come."

It was Miss Marsh's turn to get red.

"Come! Annie," she exclaimed, turning to Miss Day, "we had better waste no more time here. Miss Banister, we'll see you presently, won't we? Good night, Miss Peel. Perhaps you don't mind my saying something very frank?"

"I do," said Priscilla, "but that won't prevent your saying it, will it?"

"I don't think it will. After you have been at St. Benet's a little longer you will know that we not only appreciate cleverness and studious ways, but also obliging and sociable and friendly manners; and— and— pretty rooms— rooms with easy-chairs, and comfortable lounges, and the thousand and one things which give one a feeling of home. Take my advice, Miss Peel, there's no use fighting against the tide. You'll have to do as others do in the long run, and you may as well do it at once. That is my plain opinion, and I should not have given it to you if I had not thought you needed it. Good night."

"No, stop a minute," said Priscilla. Every scrap of color had left her face, every trace of nervousness her manner. She walked before the two girls to the door and closed it. "Please stay just for a minute longer, Miss Day and Miss Marsh, and you too, Miss Banister, if you will."

She went across the room again, and, opening the top drawer of her bureau, took out her purse. Out of the purse she took a key. The key fitted a small padlock and the padlock belonged to her trunk. She unlocked her empty trunk and opened it.

"There," she said, turning to the girls— "there," she continued, "you will be good enough to notice that there are no photographs concealed in this trunk, no pictures, no prints." She lifted the tray. "Empty, you see," she added, pointing with her hand to the lower portion of the trunk— "nothing here to make my room pretty, and cozy, and home-like." Then she shut the trunk again and locked it, and going up to where the three girls stood, gazing at her in bewilderment and some alarm, she unfastened her purse and turned all its contents into the palm of her hand.

"Look, Miss Marsh," she said, turning to the girl who had spoken last. "You may count what is here. One sovereign, one half-sovereign, two or three shillings, some pence. Would this money go far at Spilman's, do you think?"

Priscilla put it all slowly back again into her purse. Her face was still absolutely colorless. She laid the purse on the top of her bureau.

"I do not suppose," she said in a low, sad voice, "that I am the sort of girl who often comes to a place of this sort. I am poor, and I have got to work hard, and I have no time for pleasure. Nevertheless," she added— and now a great wave of color swept over her face, and her eyes were lit up, and she had a sensation of feeling quite glad, and strong, and happy— "I am not going away because I am poor, and I am not going to mind what any one thinks of me as long as I do right. My room must stay empty and bare, because I have no money to make it full and beautiful. And do you think that I would ask those— those who sent me here— to add one feather's weight to their cares and expenses, to give me money to buy beautiful things because I am afraid of you? No, I should be awfully afraid to do that; but I am not afraid of you."

Priscilla opened the drawer of her bureau and put her little light purse back again in its hiding-place.

"Good night, Miss Peel," said Miss Day in a thin, small kind of voice.

"Good night, Miss Peel," said Miss Marsh. The girls went gently out of the room. They closed the door behind them, without making any noise. Nancy Banister remained behind. She came up to Priscilla and kissed her.

"You are brave," she said. "I admire you. I— I— am proud of you. I am glad to know that a girl like you has come to live here."

"Don't— don't," said poor Prissie. Her little burst of courage had deserted her. She covered her face with her trembling hands. She did not want Nancy Banister to see that her eyes were full of tears.