"I know. If you had, I suppose you would have written it all alone." "What do you mean? I did write it alone." Then remembering Lucian's help, Martine flushed to the roots of her hair. "I did not mean to offend you," continued Priscilla, "for even if Lucian helped you a little, this was all right; I was only thinking how unfair I had been. I accidentally saw some notes for your essay in Lucian's handwriting, and for a little while I felt that you had acted unfairly. Do you remember one week last spring, when I was stiff and disagreeable and wouldn't go anywhere with you?" "_One_ week!" exclaimed Martine, roguishly. "Oh, I dare say there were others. Only I remember the why of that particular week." "But it's so long ago," cried Martine, "Let's not remember it now." "It's only fair that you should know that I sometimes jump to conclusions." "As long as you are ready to jump away from them again, there's no great harm done." "That's what I wanted to say. I realized after all that there was no rule in school against getting help in an essay, and that you didn't know a prize was to be given when you wrote yours. But I always thought you ought to know how unfair I had been." "Then we are friends again," said Martine, laughing, "though I didn't know we had ever been anything else." Secretly, she thought Priscilla had made a great ado about nothing. "It's the Puritan way, I suppose," she said to herself. Then aloud,-- "As I have forgiven you, we may call it square about those Christmas photographs. Thus far I have always been able to prevent your paying me for them. But to-day, when I found your note with this money on my bureau--really, Priscilla, I was almost offended. So here, child," and she held out an envelope, "if you will take back this money, I will forgive you for your unfair thoughts." Under the circumstances Priscilla could not refuse Martine, and thus both girls were satisfied. "There's one thing," said Martine, to change the subject, "I have had some lovely letters lately. Just think of little Esther's writing me. Nora must have told her where I was. She hopes I will be able to go on with the Mansion Class next year--but dear me, Priscilla, she has got far beyond me; only look at this pen and ink," and she displayed the last page of the letter, in which Esther had drawn a picture that Priscilla at once recognized as Martine herself. "Then Alexander Babet has written me about Yvonne, that she is much stronger, and so happy with her music lessons,--and would you believe it, they still have some of that hundred dollars left. It's wonderful how far some people can make a little money go." Here Martine sighed, recalling the time when she would not have thought a hundred dollars too much to spend in gratifying a single small wish.