itting exertion in the course
of which, because she had little peeps of what looked like success, the
rebel in her went to sleep again--at length Laura had her reward. One
Sunday morning M. P. asked her to be her partner on the walk to church.
This was as if a great poet should bend from his throne to take a
younger brother-singer by the hand; and, in her headlong fashion, Laura
all but fell at the elder girl's feet. From this day forward she
out-heroded Herod, in her efforts to make of herself exactly what Mary
thought she ought to be.

Deep within her, none the less, there lurked a feeling which sometimes
made as if to raise its head: a feeling that she did not really like M.
P., or admire her, or respect her; one which, had it come quite to
life, would have kicked against Mary's authority, been contemptuous of
her unimaginative way of seeing and saying things, on the alert to
remind its owner that HER way, too, had a right to existence. But is
was not strong enough to make itself heard, or rather Laura refused to
hear it, and turned a deaf ear whenever it tried to hint at its
presence.--For Mr. Worldly-Wiseman was her model just now.

Whereas Cupid--there was something in Cupid that was congenial to her.
A plain girl, with irregular features--how she had come by her nickname
no one knew--Cupid was three years older than Laura, and one of the few
in the school who loved reading for its own sake. In a manner, she was
cleverer even than M. P.; but it was not a school-booky way, and hence
was not thought much of. However, Laura felt drawn to her at once--even
though Cupid treated her as quite a little girl--and they sometimes got
as far as talking of books they had read. From this whiff of her, Laura
was sure that Cupid would have had more understanding than M. P. for
her want of veracity; for Cupid had a kind of a dare-devil mind in a
hidebound character, and was often very bold of speech.

Yet it was not Cupid's good opinion she worked for, with might and main.

The rate of her upward progress in Mary's estimation could be gauged by
the fact that the day came when the elder girl spoke openly to her of
her crime. At the first merciless words Laura winced hotly, both at and
for the tactlessness of which Mary was guilty. But, the first shameful
stab over, she felt the better of it; yes, it was a relief to speak to
some one of what she had borne alone for so long. To speak of it, and
even to argue round it a little; for