ettier than it ought to be, for a prize in such a
school," said Miss Macy. "It will do."

"I've seen handsomer prizes," said Miss Bentley.

"But you've got it, more ways than one, Daisy," Miss Lansing went on.
"I declare! Aren't you a distinguished young lady! Madame, too! why we
all used to think we behaved pretty well _before company_,--didn't we,
St. Clair?"

"I hate favour and favouritism!" said that young lady, her upper lip
taking the peculiar turn to which my attention had once been called.
"Madame likes whatever is French."

"But Randolph is not French, are you, Randolph?" said Blackeyes, who
was good-natured through everything.

"Madame is not French herself," said Miss Bentley.

"I hate everything at school!" St. Clair went on.

"It's too bad," said her friend. "Do you know, Daisy, St. Clair always
has the prize for compositions. What made you go and write that long
stuff about Rameses? the people didn't understand it, and so they
thought it was fine."

"I am sure there was a great deal finer writing in Faustina's
composition," said Miss Bentley.

I knew very well that Miss St. Clair had been accustomed to win this
half-yearly prize for good writing. I had expected nothing but that
she would win it this time. I had counted neither on my own success
nor on the displeasure it would raise. I took my hat and went over to
my dear Miss Cardigan; hoping that ill-humour would have worked itself
out by bed-time. But I was mistaken.

St Clair and I had been pretty near each other in our classes, though
once or twice lately I had got an advantage over her; but we had kept
on terms of cool social distance until now. Now the spirit of rivalry
was awake. I think it began to stir at my Paris dresses and things;
Karnak and Mme. Ricard finished the mischief.

On my first coming to school I had been tempted in my horror at the
utter want of privacy to go to bed without prayer; waiting till the
rest were all laid down and asleep and the lights out, and then
slipping out of bed with great care not to make a noise, and watching
that no whisper of my lips should be loud enough to disturb anybody's
slumbers. But I was sure after a while, that this was a cowardly way
of doing; and I could not bear the words, "Whosoever shall be ashamed
of me and of my words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed, when He
cometh in the glory of His Father." I determined in the vacation that
I would do so no more, cost what it might the