ent over her Latin grammar. She had
not asked permission to join the dictation class, and Marion had not
volunteered it. Truth to tell, she hardly dared venture to address her
at all. The eyes had lost none of their keen flash, and the color seemed
to be deepening, instead of subsiding on her pretty soft cheeks.

Marion, as her eyes roved over the exercise book in her hand, felt her
heart arrested by these words among the selections for dictation:

"Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ."

They smote her like a blow from an unseen hand. What burdens of
homesickness and _ennui_ and weariness might not all these girls have
had to bear to-day! Had she helped them? Had her manner been winning and
hopeful and invigorating? Had her words been gentle and well chosen, as
well as firm and decisive? Her answers to these questions stung her.

Moved by a sudden impulse, and not giving herself time to shrink from
the determination, she bent forward a little and addressed Gracie:

"Read that, Gracie. I have not obeyed its direction to-day; have you? Do
you think you have helped me to bear _my_ burdens?"

Would Gracie answer her at all? Would her answer be cold and haughty; as
nearly rude as she had dared to make it? Marion felt her heart throb
while she waited. And she _had_ to wait, for Gracie was utterly silent.

At last her teacher stole a glance at her. The great beautiful eyes were
lifted to her face. The flash was passing out of them. In its place
there was a puzzled, wondering, questioning look. And, when at last she
spoke, her voice was timid, as if she were half frightened at her own
words, and yet eager as one who must know:

"Miss Wilbur, you don't mean--oh, _do_ you mean that _you_ want to
fulfill the law of Christ; that you own him?"

"That I own him and love him," Marion said, her cheeks glowing now as
Gracie's did, "and that I want above all things, to fulfill his law, and
yet that I have miserably failed, even this first day."

Among Marion's sad thoughts that day had been:

"There is no one to know, or to care, whether I am different or not. If
I could only _tell_ some one--some Christian who would be glad--but who
is there to tell? Prof. Easton is a Christian, but he doesn't care
enough about the Lord Jesus to rebuke those who profane his name; he has
let me do it in his presence, and smiled at my wit. And these girls"
(and here Marion's lip had curled), "they don't know what they