must not say more: for I should not deserve this,” extending her medal towards Miss Vincent, “were I to be the promoter of quarrels.”

Miss Vincent hastily caught the medal, broke the ribbon, and threw them across the room, exclaiming, “it is these baubles that make you so insolent!”

The young ladies with one accord flew to the medal. Miss Arden however, was the fortunate person. On securing it, and returning it to her companion, she said, “accept this symbol of peace from my hand, my dear friend. As for Miss Vincent, I just view her as the passengers in the mail coach viewed the fly, for she makes herself equally ridiculous.”

“It is a pity that Miss Vincent is the daughter of so brave a man!” cried Miss Cotton. “Who would suppose that one of our greatest heroes was her father!”

“Father! how vulgar!” returned Miss Russel. “Pray who is your papa, Miss Cotton, that you presume to give yourself these airs, and speak in this manner?”

“My papa, Miss Russel, is a plain country gentleman, and I may say with truth that he reigns in the hearts of his children, and has taught them to ‘honour and obey their father and their mother, that their days may be long in the land.’ But you fashionable young ladies, ‘who press to bear such haughty sway,’ are exempt from this code, for there is no express command to honour pas and mas.”

“I hope Mrs. Adair will never give another medal,” said Miss Damer.

“You deserved it,” cried Miss Cotton with warmth, “and I hope you will always be rewarded for excelling, in every thing you attempt.”

“A person must be envious indeed,” said Miss Arden, “who can for a moment feel hurt at another being rewarded!”

“Had they your temper,” cried Miss Cotton, “envy would indeed be unknown; but medals of merit, as they are styled, certainly create strife.”

“But heroes, poets, and artists are distinguished by many proofs of regard,” observed Miss Arden; “why should we be against a reward to merit here?”

“You do not consider,” said Miss Cotton, “great men, have great minds; but we have very little ones.”

“I can only say, I pity any one with a malicious temper: and a person must have one, indeed, who can envy Miss Damer; for she never provokes to anger, or gives offence.”

“And pray how are you to answer for Miss Damer?” asked Miss Vincent.

“I wonder you ask this question,” returned Miss Arden. “From the first day I came into this house I had reason to dread you; and love, and esteem, Miss Damer. Though I was a stranger to every one, you made me a subject of ridicule;—but I will not tell you of all your unkindness.”

“Pray how long have you been, in studying this set speech?”

“Only whilst you were setting your face to look contemptuously.”

“Wonderful! I could not have supposed that a creole had wit! But I forget, you are the heiress of a rich nabob! Pray to what black knight, or noble emperor, are you allied?”

“Oh, fie! fie! how can you be so insolent!” cried Miss Damer.

“Miss Vincent’s words do not trouble me: they have lost their power; let her be as severe as she pleases. If she could not display her talent in satire, we should say she was the simple one of Mrs. Adair’s school: there are drones and dunces every where.”

“My dear Miss Arden, let us cease all disputes,” said Miss Cotton; “Miss Vincent and her friend are the most suitable persons to be together, when they are in a quarrelsome mood: let us forbear speaking to them.”

“Cotton would make an admirable methodist parson,” cried Miss Vincent.

“I wish I could return the compliment; for a good method leads to proper conduct.”

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CHAPTER VII.

The young ladies had always to write an extract from one of the sermons they had heard at church on the sabbath day. In this exercise of memory Miss Damer particularly excelled; the most difficult sermon she could transcribe almost word for word. This had excited the spirit of envy in Miss Vincent. The week after the dispute upon the medal, when Miss Damer opened her book, wherein she had written a sermon with extreme neatness, she found every line so scrawled, that one word could not be distinguished from another. Surprised at this proof of secret malice, she involuntarily gave the book to Miss Cotton, who was seated by her. Mrs. Adair, however, desired to look at it. After examining every page, she said, and at the same time fixed her eyes upon Miss Vincent, “I pity the young lady who has done this; she has betrayed one of the meanest passions of the human mind.” She now looked anxiously round the room; “I see few countenances,” she added, “where envy reigns.

“Miss Vincent, had you ever this book in your hand? speak in a moment—yes, or no: I want no other word!”

“No, ma’am; I never had the book in my hand, I can declare with truth.”

“Miss Bruce, is this your work? for I know you are a little busy-body.”

“O no, ma’am! I would not blot any lady’s book for the world.”

Mrs. Adair now turned to Miss Arden: “my dear, have you been amusing yourself with your companion’s book?”

“No, ma’am.”

“The mystery, I think, will soon be explained: and I fear I shall find that there has been more artifice than truth in a young lady’s assertion. Come hither, Isabella, I wish to speak to you.”

Little Isabella’s features betrayed confusion and terror: and as she slowly walked up the room, she burst into tears. “Do not be afraid,” said Mrs. Adair, in a soothing tone of voice, “I am not angry with you. Tell me plainly how it was. What did your sister say to you?”

“O, ma’am, she said—O dear, I wish I were at home—”

“Come, speak the truth, my dear. You know you are one of my best little girls. Tell me how you were led into this error. Speak openly, and do not be afraid.”

“I have not done it—I mean, I have—O dear, where is mamma?”

“Happy at home, I make no doubt. But were papa and mamma here, it would make no difference, for I must have the truth. Did you mark this book?”

“O dear, yes, ma’am! but I would not have done it, but I must do it. O, sister, you know—you do know—and you will pinch me so! Do, dear, good Mrs. Adair, tell her not to pinch me, for I know I shall scream!”

“This is a strange account! We must have a little conversation, my dear, in the evening. Correction, or advice, will have no effect with you, Miss Vincent. You are not aware that your conduct will be deeply impressed upon the mind of every young lady present: it will be remembered when you have forgotten the circumstance yourself. I shall expect to see you with your sister.”

Mrs. Adair looked round upon her pupils with a countenance of affection and concern. “Young ladies,” she added, “it behoves you to conduct yourselves in this house in a manner, that you may go forth into the world with modest confidence, arising