emed to her to be a
postscript to her mother's letter, that was, "Study wisely done was
the only true study."

The lawn itself, cultured and tasteful, had its share, and by no means
a small one, in the work of education. Clusters of ornamental trees,
dotted here and there over its soft green, were interspersed with
lovely flower-beds, in which were growing not only rare flowers, but
the dear old blossoms,--candytuft, narcissus, clove-pinks, jonquils,
heart's-ease, daffodils, and many another to which the eyes of some of
the young girls turned lovingly, for they knew they were blossoming in
their dear home garden.

As Marion was going to her room, after taking her roses to Miss
Ashton, she found Mamie Smythe waiting for her.

"O you poor Marion!" she said, catching Marion by the arm, "I--I hope
she didn't scold you; she never does--never; but she looks so hurt. I
never would have told on you, and nobody would. We all knew you didn't
know; I'm so sorry!"

"I told on myself," said Marion, laughing, "and she punished me. Don't
you see how broken-hearted I am?"

"What _did_ she do to you? Why, Marion Parke, she is always good to
those who confess and don't wait to be found out!"

"She sent me out to pick her a lovely bunch of roses."

"Oh!" said Mamie. Then a small crowd of girls gathered round them,
Mamie telling them the story in her own peculiar way, much to their
amusement; for Mamie was the baby and the wit of the school, a spoiled
child at home, a generous, merry favorite at school, a good scholar
when she chose to be, but fonder of fun and mischief than of her
books, consequently a trouble to her teachers. She was a classmate of
Marion, and for some unaccountable reason, as no two could have been
more unlike, had taken a great fancy to her, one of those fancies
which are apt to abound in any gathering of young girls. Had Marion
returned it with equal ardor, the two, even short as the term had
been, would be now inseparable; but Marion had her room-mates for
company when her lessons left her any time, and Gladys and Dorothy had
already learned to love her. As for Susan, she seemed of little
account in their room. She would have said of herself that she "moved
in a very different circle," and that was true; even a boarding-school
has its cliques, and to one of the largest of these Susan prided
herself upon belonging. Just what it consisted of it would be
difficult to say, certainly not of the best scholars, for