Saturday. On Monday the examination would be over, and in a
week the competitors would know their fates!

Some of my readers may know the queer sensation one sometimes gets at
the approach of a long-looked-for and hardly-worked-for examination.
For a week or so you have quietly been counting up what you _do_ know.
Now there breaks upon you an awful picture of what you do _not_ know,
and with it the absolute conviction that what you do not know is exactly
what you ought to know, and what you do know is no use at all. It is
too late to do anything. You cannot get up in a day what it would take
you a fortnight to go through. And it is not much good, now you are
sure it is useless, to go over again what you have done. You begin to
feel a sort of despair, which becomes, as the hours close in, positively
reckless. What do you care if you do miss? What's the use of bothering
any more about it? It cannot be helped; why make yourself miserable?
Only, you would give worlds to have the thing all over. Such at least
were the sensations which stirred in the breasts of Oliver Greenfield
and Horace Wraysford as they sat somewhat dejectedly over their books in
Oliver's study that Saturday afternoon.

They had both worked hard since the holidays, generally together,
neither concealing from the other what he had read or what he intended
to read. Very bad rivals were these two, for though each was intent on
winning the scholarship, each felt he would not break his heart if the
other beat him, and that, as every one knows, is a most unheard-of piece
of toleration. Now, however, each felt he had had enough of it. Oliver
in particular was very despondent. He slammed up his books suddenly,
and said, "I give it up; it's not a bit of use going on!"

Wraysford pushed back his chair slowly, and said, not very cheeringly,
"Upon my word I think you're right, Noll."

"I've a good mind," said Oliver, looking very morose, "to scratch, and
leave you and Loman to fight it out."

"Don't be a jackass, Noll," replied Wraysford, half laughing. "That
_would_ be a sensible thing to do!"

"All very well for you to laugh," said Oliver, his brow clouding. "You
know you are well up and are going to win."

"I'm no better up than you are," said the other.

"You know you're going to win," repeated Oliver.

"I only wish I did," said Wraysford, with a sigh.

"Why," pursued Oliver, evidently bent on a melancholy tack, "I assure
you, Wray, I've