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There was one line of goods made by a firm,
according to its own telling, high in the favour of "their Majesties So
and So," that was rich in vowels and consonants. When Priscilla found
that by taking innocent looking little letters and stringing them
together like beads she could make words, she was wild with delight, and
when she discovered that she could further take the magic words and by
setting them forth in orderly fashion express her own thoughts or know
another's thoughts, she was happy beyond description.
"Father," she panted at that point, her hands clasped before her, her
dark, blue-eyed face flushing and paling, "will you let me go to Master
Farwell to study with the boys?"
Nathaniel eyed her from the top step of the porch; "with the boys" had
been fatal to the child's request.
"No," he said firmly, the old light of antagonism glinting suddenly under
his brow, "girls don't need learning past what their mothers can give
them."
"I--do! I'm willing to suffer and _die_, but I do want to know things."
She was an intense atom, and from the first thought true and straight.


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