ed in
the bower, "you are the only girl in the school to whom I could confide
the subject of my great essay. I really believe that I have hit on
something absolutely original. My dear child, I hope you won't allow
yourself to be discouraged. I fear that you won't have much heart to go
on with your theme after you have read my words; but, never mind, dear,
it will be good practice for you, and you know it _was_ rather silly to
go in for a prize which I intended to compete for."

"May I read your essay, please, Dora?" asked Hester. "I am very much
interested in my own study, and, whether I win the prize or not, I shall
always remember the pleasure I took in writing it."

"What subject did you select, dear?" inquired Miss Russell.

"Well, I am attempting a little sketch of Marie Antoinette."

"Ah, hackneyed, my dear girl--terribly hackneyed; but, of course, I don't
mean to discourage you. _Now I_--I draw a life-picture, and I call it
'The River.' See how it begins--why, I declare I know the words by heart,
'_As our eyes rest on this clear and limpid stream, as we see the sun
sparkle_----' My dear Hester, you shall read me my essay aloud. I shall
like to hear my own words from your lips, and you have really a pretty
accent, dear."

Hester folded back the brown paper cover, and wanting to have her task
over began to read hastily. But, as her eyes rested on the first lines,
she turned to her companion, and said:

"Did you not tell me that your essay was called 'The River'?"

"Yes, dear; the full title is 'The Windings of a Noble River.'"

"That's very odd," replied Hester. "What I see here is 'The Meanderings
of a Muddy Stream.' '_As our dull orbs rest on this turbid water on which
the sun cannot possibly shine._' Why, Dora, this cannot be your essay,
and yet, surely, it is your handwriting."

Dora, with her face suddenly flushing a vivid crimson, snatched the
manuscript from Hester's hand, and looked over it eagerly. Alas! there
was no doubt. The title of this essay was "The Meanderings of a Muddy
Stream," and the words which immediately followed were a smart and
ridiculous parody on her own high flown sentences. The resemblance to her
handwriting was perfect. The brown paper cover, neatly sewn on to protect
the white manuscript, was undoubtedly her cover; the very paper on which
the words were written seemed in all particulars the same. Dora turned
the sheets eagerly, and here for the first time she saw a differenc