best, and then never mind who wins."

Grace laughed nervously.

"Ma doesn't care a speck," she thought. "You can't get ma eager about anything; but pa cares. O, dear me, won't I work hard just for the sake of pleasing pa!"

It occurred to Grace that she must write at once to Cassy, and tell her what Mahla had said. Those mournful words, "Grace will get it," haunted her. It seemed to the child that she could not press forward and gain the prize without walking right over Mahla's heart. So Grace seated herself at the centre-table, and opened her little writing-desk; when her father, who had been quietly reading to himself, suddenly exclaimed, "Really, Maria, this is horrible," and began to read aloud an account of the last battle.

When Grace heard any mention of the war, she either stopped her ears or ran away. Now she hastily gathered up her writing materials, and went into the kitchen, where Barbara sat with her unfailing black knitting-work. Barbara was very glad to have her tidy premises honored with a visit, and insisted upon bringing an arm-chair out of the dining-room for her guest.

Grace seated herself at the kitchen table, which was as white as it could be scoured; but scarcely had she smoothed out her paper and written "Darling old Cassy," when Horace appeared in the door-way, making mysterious signals to Barbara. What could the boy mean? The good, foggy-brained German girl was sorely puzzled,—did not know the deaf and dumb alphabet, and could never take a hint.

"Come here, then, Barby," cried the boy; "I'll make you 'ferstand.'"

"So I'm the one in the way," said Grace, quickly; "you're so mightily mysterious, all of a sudden, Horace!"

"Good evening, Grace," said Robert Sherwood, appearing at the door; "what about the prize?"

"O, dear, I don't know, Robin."

"What think I heard? That the trial would lie between two of you girls—Grace Clifford and Mahla Linck."

Grace flushed to the temples.

Then other people thought that, as well as the school-girls.

"What are you doing, Grace?" said Horace, returning from the dining-room, and eying his sister's writing-desk with some curiosity.

"Writing a letter, or trying to," replied Grace, flourishing her pen nervously in the air.

"Why is your letter like the equator?" said Robert.

"Equator? Don't know. Can't stop to guess conundrums."

"Because it's only an imaginary line."

"My letter? O, Robin, how smart! It always will be imaginary, I reckon, while you boys stand there looking at me. Do, please, let me alone!"

"O, good by, South Carolina," said Robert, bowing. "I'm off."

"Good by, Car'line," echoed little Horace, with a patronizing sweep of his thumb.

Grace returned to her writing, her feelings still somewhat ruffled.
She had proceeded as far as "I want to see you more than tongue can
tell," when Horace burst into the room again with a second message to
Barbara.

"Is there, or is there not, a place in this house where a body can go to write a letter?" cried Grace, rising and pushing back her paper. But her remark was unheeded. Barbara and Horace went on whispering together, and seemed to be enjoying their little secret, whatever it might be.

Grace's nerves were quivering from the day's excitement. "I'm not cross," thought she. "O, no, not cross; but I'd like to give that boy a good shaking. It's not my temper, it's my 'nervous system.' The doctor said my nervous system was torn to pieces by the chills."

Grace would never forget this unfortunate remark of her physician. But she was a sensible girl, and it suddenly occurred to her that her "nervous system" could never go to scolding unless she opened her mouth. Bitter, sharp words sprang to her tongue; but if her tongue was only "kept between her teeth," the words couldn't fly out. "I'll just 'lock my lips,'" mused Grace, "for, as ma says, 'A spoken word no chariot can overtake, though it be drawn by four swift horses.'"

Tedious little Horace at last made an end of his story, and left the kitchen whistling either Dixie or Yankee Doodle, no mortal could tell which; for out of Horace's mouth they were one and the same thing. Barbara seated herself, and resumed her knitting. She usually nodded over that black stocking as drowsily as if it had been a treatise on philosophy, or something quite as stupid; but to-night she was painfully wide awake.

"O, my patience!" thought Grace; "can't she look at anything but me?"

There by the stove sat the glaring white kitty, staring at Grace with winking eyelids, and on the mantel stood the clock ticking at her, and in the corner sat Barby clicking needles at her; every tick and every click seeming to go through Grace's ears like percussion caps.

"Miss Grace," said Barbara, picking up a stitch, "be you writin' to
Susy Parlin?"

"No, Barby," replied Grace, frowning at her paper.

Barbara went on with her knitting, the clock went on with its ticking, and the cat still stared at Grace. Presently Barbara dropped another stitch. "Miss Grace," said she, "does you write to little Prudy Parlin?"

"No, Barby; to Cassy. But seems to me you're amazingly wide awake."

"Yes, dear; I doesn't feel sleepy a bit."

Sharp words were on Grace's tongue again; but she said gently, after a pause,—"Barby, will you please not talk? It troubles me."

"Bless your little white heart," cried Barby, turning about, and putting her feet on the stove hearth, "not a word more will I speak." Grace felt quieted. She had fought against her "nervous system," and conquered a peace. Now, for the first time, she could write, and forget clocks, cats, and knitting-needles in her subject. She told Cassy just what her father said, what her mother said, and how "there never was anything she wanted so much as that splendid prize."

Then she spoke of Mahla Linck, and asked Cassy to be sure and write what she thought about her. Would it be a shame to try to get ahead of a poor lame girl? Why need one mind Mahla more than the other princesses? Hadn't one a right to push by all that came in one's way?

Somehow Grace did not wish to tell her mother of the strife going on in her mind. "Ma wouldn't care a picayune about my winning," thought she; "she'd say, 'Give it up to the little German.' Ma is almost too good to live. But pa cares about it; O, I can see that pa cares very much."

Grace's mind was settling itself. By writing the facts in black and white they had become clearer to her. Now she was fully decided what course to take about Mahla. She wrote till nine o'clock, then signed herself, "Yours, like everything—Gracie."

"Now, Barby," said she, "yon may talk as much as you please, for I've no more writing to do. Much obliged to you for keeping so still."

Barby laughed in high good humor, and going into the pantry, brought out a funny little table, about a foot and a half long. It was a miniature extension table, of black walnut, freshly polished with sweet oil. Grace clapped her hands, screaming with delight.

"Why, where did this come from? Just what I've wanted for my dining-room department, Barby, ever since I had my cabinet!"

Barbara took out the inside leaves, making an oval centre-table.

"O, so cunning! Whose is it, Barby? I haven't felt like I could give dinner parties for my enormous doll on that tea-poy—it's too tall."