"Well, I think I've told you everything," said the aunt. 

"Oh, yes, Aunt Raby, I sha'n't forget.  I'm to write once a week, and
I'm to try not to be nervous.  I don't suppose I shall be-- I don't see
why I should.  Girls aren't nervous nowadays, are they?" 

"I don't know, my dear.  It seems to me that if they aren't they ought
to be.  I can understand girls doing hard things if they must.  I can
understand any one doing anything that has to be done, but as to not
being nervous-- well-- there! Sit down, Prissie, child, and take your
tea." 

Priscilla was tall and slight.  Her figure was younger than her years,
which were nearly nineteen, but her face was older.  It was an almost
careworn face, thoughtful, grave, with anxious lines already deepening
the seriousness of the too serious mouth. 

Priscilla cut some bread and butter and poured out some tea for her
aunt and for herself.