“What’s this, hey? oh! a story! That’s right, Harriet, I am glad to see you taking to literary pursuits. Come, child! give me the pen and I will improve that sentence for you.” “Thank you, aunt! but I don’t want it improved.” “Not want it improved! There’s vanity!” “Indeed, aunt, I am not vain about it, and I would like you to help me, if it were not to be shown as mine. It wouldn’t be fair, you know, to pass off another’s as my own. I am writing for a prize.” “For a prize! So much the more reason that you should be assisted. There, dear, run away to your play and I will write it all for you. You’ll be sure to win the prize.” With every word thus uttered, Harriet’s eyes had grown larger and darker, and at the close, she turned them, full of astonishment, from her aunt’s face to her mother’s. Reassured by the expression of the latter, she replied, “But, Aunt Eloise, that would be a falsehood, you know.” “A falsehood, miss!” cried the maiden, sharply, “It is a very common thing, I assure you!” “But not the less false for being common, Eloise,” said Mrs. Carlton; “pray let Harriet have her own way about it. It would be far better to lose the prize, than to gain it thus dishonestly.” Aunt Eloise, as usual, secretly determined to have _her_ own way; but she said no more then, and Harriet pursued her employment without further interruption. CHAPTER III. THE PRIZE. The exhibition day had arrived. Harriet had finished her story several days before, and read it to her mother. It was a simple, graceful, childlike effusion, with less of pretension and ornament, and more of spirit and originality than the compositions of most children of the same age contain. Mrs. Carlton seemed much pleased; but Aunt Eloise had criticised it without mercy. At the same time she was observed to smile frequently with a cunning, sly, triumphant expression, peculiar to herself—an expression which she always wore when she had a secret, and secrets she had, in abundance—a new one almost every day—trivial, petty secrets, which no one cared about but herself; but which _she_ guarded as jealously as if they had been apples of gold. The exhibition day had arrived. “Good bye, mother; good bye, aunty,” said Harriet, glancing for a moment into the breakfast-room. She was looking very pretty in a simple, tasteful dress, made for the occasion. She held the story in her hand, neatly enclosed in an envelope, and her eyes were full of hope—the cloudless hope of childhood. “Don’t be surprised, Harriet,” said her aunt, “at any thing that may happen to-day. Only be thankful if the prize is yours, that’s all.” “If Kate Sumner don’t win it, I do _hope_ I shall!” replied the eager child, and away she tripped to school.