Three Girls from School. Meade L. T.

proposes. You won’t hear a word of the rasping talk then; not a word, I do assure you.”

      Mabel laughed.

      “What a goose you are, Annie!” she said. “But really, I suppose it is a good plan.”

      “Once I overdid it,” said Annie. “Uncle Horace was talking on, oh! so gently. He was looking a little sad, too, and I knew I should have to make my subject very absorbing not to take in his words. So I had my hero down on his knees, and his hand was clasping mine, and he was talking, oh! most eloquently. I really forgot that Uncle Horace was by, and I burst out: ‘I can’t marry you quite yet, Clement!’ I thought Uncle Horace would have a fit. He was convinced for the remainder of that day that I had been for a short time touched by lunacy. I explained to him as best I could that I was only reciting something I had learned at school; but of course he didn’t believe me.”

      “He never understood you; that is one comfort,” laughed Mabel.

      “No, my dear, he didn’t. But to this day I do believe he is looking out everywhere for my imaginary Clement. He is convinced that I shall run away with him some day.”

      Mabel was silent for a minute. Then she said, “You are too comical, Annie. It is well to have your powers of imagination; but the worst of it is that in my case I get the lectures by letter. Oh, it’s enough to sicken one!”

      “Well, read your letter – do,” said Annie.

      Mabel sank into the nearest chair, and languidly tearing open the thin envelope of her aunt’s letter, unfolded the sheets and began to read. Annie’s first impulse was to rise and leave the room. She had her own interests to see after, and Mabel would be lost to external things for a bit. But a sudden exclamation from her companion caused her to change her mind. Mabel uttered something between a groan and a laugh, and then, tossing her aunt’s voluminous sheets across to Annie, said:

      “Read that letter, and just tell me if Aunt Henrietta isn’t quite enough to drive anybody mad.”

      “May I read it all?” asked Annie, who adored confidences, and whose principal power in the school lay in the fact that she was more or less in everybody’s secret.

      “Yes, yes; read it aloud. I declare I have hardly taken it in, I am so bewildered at Aunt Henrietta’s point of view.”

      Annie accordingly picked up the sheets, put them in order, and proceeded to read the following words:

      ”‘Grand Hotel, Paris, July 10.

      ”‘My dear Mabel, – Your last extraordinary letter and your unladylike, and frantic desire to leave such a desirable place as Mrs Lyttelton’s school have affected me a great deal. You speak with great intemperance, my dear, and annoy me much. You seem to forget that my one sole object in treating you as I do is for your good. But really, after your last letter, I do not think school can be doing you much good, and provided you will subject yourself to a test which I am about to set you, I will yield to your request. I may as well tell you first of all that I strongly disapprove of girls coming out too young. It is quite true that many girls do enter upon life and go into society at eighteen years of age; but, to begin, my dear Mabel, you are hardly that age yet; and, to go oh, I personally consider eighteen too young. At nineteen you are steadier, older, more formed. During that last precious twelve months between eighteen and nineteen you are capable of learning more than you have done in all your life previously. During those months you are becoming fitted for your future position – ’”

      “Doesn’t she lecture?” said Mabel. “Didn’t I tell you so? Do go on quickly, please, Annie. Skip that part; I want you to come to the test.”

      “I don’t mean to skip a single word,” said Annie.

      “Well, be quick,” groaned Mabel. Annie proceeded, her level voice, which neither rose nor fell, but kept on in a sort of even monotone, reaching Mabel’s ears, who was far too interested to allow her thoughts to wander: ”‘My dear’ (continued Aunt Henrietta), ‘on receiving your last letter I wrote to Mrs Lyttelton; I could not reply to your letter until I had first heard from your excellent governess. I was pleased to find that on the whole she gave me an admirable report of you. She says that she considers you a promising pupil, not especially brilliant, but plodding and conscientious.’”

      “I plodding and conscientious!” said Mabel. “Oh, the horrid epithets!”

      “Keep quiet, Mabel,” said Annie. “These are the sort of remarks that are likely to impress your aunt Henrietta.”

      “Are they?” said Mabel. “Then in that case I suppose I must endure them.”

      “Well,” said Annie, “let me proceed. ‘Mrs Lyttelton is pleased with you, my dear. She says your music is up to the average, your drawing not bad’ – ”

      “Not bad, indeed!” burst from Mabel. “I have a genius for black and white.”

      “Mrs Lyttelton evidently does not see it, Mabel. But stop talking, and let me go on.

      ”‘Your English education, dear Mabel, is, however, your weak point. Mrs Lyttelton considers that you have no love for the good things of literature or history. This she much deplores. She mentions in her letter that she thinks more of the literature prize than any other prize the school offers, and wishes most heartily that you should obtain it. Now, my dear Mabel I make you a proposal. Win the first prize for literature on the coming prize day, and I will take you from school. You shall join me in Paris, and, in short, may consider yourself an emancipated young lady. If, on the other hand, you do not win the prize, you must patiently submit to another year of education, at the end of which time you shall again hear from me. Now, no more grumbles, my dear. Win the prize, and you are free; lose it, and you remain for another year at school.’”

      “There!” said Mabel; “isn’t it like her? Did you ever in all your life hear of anything more aggravating? She dangles liberty before my eyes, and shows me at the same time that I can as little hope to obtain it as to – well, to fly. I obtain the literature prize! Oh Annie, Annie, isn’t it enough to make one mad!”

      “I don’t see,” said Annie very gravely, “why you have not a chance of the prize. You have written your essay, haven’t you?”

      “Oh yes; I have written something.”

      “Of course,” said Annie in a low, thoughtful tone, “you were not likely to be keenly interested until you received this letter, but now matters are very different. You haven’t sent in your essay, have you?”

      “No; all the essay? go in after breakfast to-morrow.”

      “Well,” said Annie, “you have got to-night.”

      “It is hopeless – quite hopeless,” said Mabel; and she began to pace up and down the room.

      “I don’t consider it so for a minute,” said Annie.

      “If it were not for Priscilla there would be a chance. The only one of us who is really clever at composition is Priscilla.”

      “She is the one you have to fear. I believe that with a great deal of pains, and perhaps just a little help from me, you could manage to do something quite excellent.”

      “I can’t, I can’t!” said Mabel. “There is no good trying.”

      Annie’s eyes were very bright, and there had come vivid spots of colour into her cheeks.

      “You have got to-night,” she said suddenly, “and you must not lose the chance.”

      “Oh! it is useless,” said Mabel.

      “Leave it to me,” remarked Annie. “I will come to your room after you go to bed to-night; I will tap twice on the wall, and you will know it is I. I am so sorry for you, Mabel; it is really too bad of your aunt Henrietta.”

      “It is just like her,” said the angry Mabel. “She knew I could not possibly win the prize, and so she set me this test. Now, when I have to write to her meekly and say, ‘Dear, kind Auntie, – Your Mabel came out worst of all the girls who tried for the literature