great pity this mistake
should have been made----"

Maysie interrupted her.

"It was before she got sent out of class, Miss Bennet," she said. "Oh!
don't be angry with her! Don't send her away, will you?"

In her earnestness she laid her hand on Miss Bennet's arm. Miss Bennet
drew her to her, and kissed her again.

"Poor child!" she said. "So that's what you've been worrying your little
head about. No, I won't send her away, Miss Elton tells me that she has
improved already, and I am sure she will forgive her when she knows
everything."

Maysie thanked her with tears in her eyes.

"And now, I have one other thing to say," Miss Bennet continued. "You
must go to sleep at once, and wake up quite fresh and bright to-morrow
morning, and you shall give up the whole day to your painting. What do
you say to that?"

"How lovely!" exclaimed Maysie. "I shall get it done after all! Thank
you very, very much, Miss Bennet. Oh, I am so happy!" And she put her
arms round Miss Bennet's neck, and gave her an enthusiastic hug.

Maysie worked hard at her "Mycetozoa" the next day, and finished her
third sheet with complete success. Some weeks afterwards, Miss Bennet
sent for her to her room.

"I am glad to be able to tell you, Maysie," she said, "that you have
gained the Drawing Society's Silver Star."

Maysie drew a long breath; her heart was too full for words. The
_Silver_ Star! Could it be true?

Ruth was one of the first to congratulate her.

"I always said you'd get it, dear," she remarked as they walked round
the garden together. "And I'm just as glad as you are about it. I
haven't forgotten that it was through me you nearly lost the chance!"

Maysie returned the pressure of Ruth's hand without answering. Was not
the Silver Star the more to be prized for its association in thought
with those hours of lonely perplexity that she had gone through for the
sake of her friend?

UNCLE TONE.

BY KATE GODKIN.

"Mother darling! Is Uncle Tone really coming to see us at last? I heard
you tell father something about it," I said to my mother as she sat by
my couch, to which I had been tied for some weeks in consequence of a
cycling accident.

I had broken my leg, but had now so far recovered as to be able to move
cautiously with a stick. It was the first illness that I could remember,
and I was an only child, much loved, and I suppose much spoiled by the
most indulgent of fathers and mothers. I therefore made the mo