had
glowed with happy pride--could they bear to have their joy turned to
pain?

Mr Rawdon was talking about life, taking up the subject of the girls'
essays, enlarging upon what they had tried to express. The words
floated to Dreda's ears; she listened in curious, detached fashion.
"Difficulties and temptations came to us all; they were hard to bear,
bitterly hard at the time, but looked upon in the right light they were
just opportunities given to us to prove our true worth, to help us
farther on our way." Fine words, fine words! It was easy to preach
when all was going well for oneself, and there was no terrible mountain
of difficulty blocking up the very next step. She _could_ not tell!
All the eyes would stare at her again, but the admiration would be
changed into pity--perhaps even into suspicion. Some people might
believe that she herself was responsible for this mistake. She would
give Susan another copy of the books for Christmas. Susan should not
suffer. She would not tell.

Mr Rawdon had put down his notes, the hands of the clock had touched
yet another figure; he was looking down the room and smiling in her
direction. She lost the drift of his sentence, but his last words were
her own name--"an Etheldreda Saxon," he said, and in the midst of the
applause which followed a girl's voice rang out: "Three cheers for Dreda
Saxon!" And once more the room was in an uproar of delight.

The girls leapt to their feet; Dreda leapt with them. Susan felt her
thrust her way forward, and stared in surprise. She feared that her
friend had turned faint with emotion, but when Dreda had cleared herself
from the crowded forms she marched quietly up the room towards the
platform. The unfolded essay was in her hand, her face was as white as
the paper itself. The applause died away into a tense, uneasy silence.
Something had gone wrong. What could it be?

Dreda held up the essay towards Mr Rawdon.

She opened her lips, but it was only after several ineffectual efforts
that the husky voice would come.

"It is not mine! There has been a mistake. Susan wrote it--Susan
Webster--the prize is hers!"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A blank silence followed Dreda's announcement. Dismay, disappointment,
and distress seemed printed on every face. Mr Rawdon and Miss Drake
gazed first at each other, then at the girl, then at the paper which she
had laid upon the table. Their foreheads were fretted with perplexity.
For