Fifty-Two Stories For Girls Part 9

"Come to the cloak-room," I answered, "we can get our books after."

"You _know_ Alice Thompson cheated," she said, the moment we were alone.

"I sat just behind, and I saw you push your papers over to her, and she leant over, and copied whatever she wanted."

"I never dreamt she'd get the prize," I answered, "I only wanted to help her out of a hole."

"Well, she _did_ get it--and it's my prize, and what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. Of course I oughtn't to have let her copy--but I thought it wouldn't hurt any one."

"You'll have to tell Miss Vinton now. It's not fair I should be cheated out of the prize I've honestly won, and I'd worked so hard for it too.

I can't think how I came to make those mistakes."

"I wish to peace you hadn't!"

"But, anyhow, Alice could never have got it if she hadn't cheated, and you must tell Miss Vinton."

"Oh! that's too much," I cried. "It's for Alice to tell Miss Vinton, I can't. I'm willing to tell Alice she must."

"And if she won't?"

"Then I don't quite see what's to be done."

"You'll let her keep my prize?"

"Well, you can tell Miss Vinton if you like."

"It's you that ought to tell her. It was all your fault, you'd no right to help Alice to cheat."

"I know that's true. But it makes it all the more impossible for me to tell on her."

Just then Alice came in:

"Oh, Margaret!" she cried.

Then she saw Mabel and stopped.

"Are you going to tell Miss Vinton you cheated?" said Mabel, going up to her with flaming eyes.

"_Margaret_, did you tell?" said Alice.

"I saw you!" said Mabel, "I sat just behind and saw you! You're not going to try to keep my prize, are you?"

"No, of course not," said Alice, "I never thought of getting the prize.

I only wanted to write a decent paper and not have Miss Vinton pitching into me as usual. You're welcome to the prize, if that will do."

Mabel said nothing.

"I'm afraid that won't quite do," I said. "It would be too difficult for Mabel to explain at home without telling on you. You'd much better tell on yourself."

"I can't," said Alice, "I'm as sorry as I can be, now, that I did it--but I can't face Miss Vinton."

She looked ready to cry.

"Well, I shall have to confess too," I said. "It was partly my fault.

Let us go together."

"I daren't," said Alice.

But I could see she was yielding.

"Come along," I said, taking her arm. "It's the only way out. You know you won't keep Mabel's prize, and it's as bad to keep her honour and glory. This is the only way out. Let's get it over."

She came then, but reluctantly.

Fortunately we found Miss Vinton alone in her room, and between us we managed to stammer out our confession.

Miss Vinton, I think, was not surprised. She had feared there was something not quite straight. But she was extremely severe with us both, as much with me as with Alice, and as it was to be my last interview with her I was heart-broken.

However, I lingered a moment after Alice, and then turned back and said:

"Please forgive me, you can't think how sorry I am."

"Remember, Margaret," she replied, "that it is not enough to be honourable in your own conduct--you must as far as possible discourage anything dishonourable in other people. I know you would not cheat yourself, but if it is wrong to cheat, it is equally wrong to help some one else to cheat--don't you see? Will you remember this in future--in big things as well as in small? You must not only do right yourself.

Your influence must be on the right side too. Certainly, I forgive you.

You've been a good girl all this year, and I'm sorry to lose you."

So I went away comforted.

And I came home with never a prize to show. But I had what was better. I had acquired a real love of study which I have never lost. I don't know what became of Alice Thompson, I only hope that she never had to earn her living by teaching. Nelly Gascoyne went home to a jolly family of brothers and sisters and gave herself up to the pleasures and duties of home. Joyce became a.s.sistant mistress in a school, and Mabel followed up her successes at school by winning a scholars.h.i.+p at Cambridge a year later.

And I--well, I've never come in first anywhere, but I'm fairly contented with a second place.

THE SILVER STAR.

BY NELLIE HOLDERNESS.

Maysie Grey had set her heart on the Drawing Society's Silver Star. She kept her ambition to herself as a thing too audacious to be put into words. That she possessed talent, the school fully recognised. She was only thirteen, and by dint of steady perseverance was making almost daily progress. Her painting lessons were a source of unmixed pleasure to her, for hers was a nature that never yielded to discouragement, and never magnified difficulties.

"You must aim at the Bronze Star this year," her science mistress had said to her, while helping her to fix the gla.s.s slides she was to paint from, under the microscope, "and next year you must go on to the Silver----"

"Look, how beautiful the colours are!" Maysie exclaimed in delight. The delicate, varying tints fascinated her. She set to work with enthusiasm, never having done anything of the kind before. "'Mycetozoa,' do you call them?" she asked.

"Yes. Be sure you spell it rightly."