"But, Henry, I don't like children to strive so hard to outdo one another. Don't you think prizes are likely to awaken envy and ill-feeling?" Grace listened with her eager mind all awake. She very well knew that on such a question a little girl's opinion is worth nothing; still it seemed strange that her mamma could talk of "envy and ill feeling" in the same breath with the Girls' Grammar School. Mrs. Clifford, however, did not know of the Ruby Seal, which had united the girls in such strong bonds of friendship that it would never be possible for a trifle like this to part them. Captain Clifford settled himself into his dressing-gown and slippers. "I know," said he, "there are various opinions with regard to giving prizes; but so far as my own experience goes, they are real helps to industry. Begging your pardon, Maria, I highly approve of anything that quickens the ambition." Grace's eyes shone. "Yes," continued Captain Clifford, stroking his daughter's hair, "and if our Grace can win the prize, I'll promise to give her a handsome present to go with it." Grace gave a little scream of delight. "O, pa," cried she, throwing her arms about Captain Clifford's neck, "you're just the greatest darling! I do believe nobody else ever had such a father." Mrs. Clifford looked at her little girl's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and feared a sleepless night for her. "Remember this, Gracie," said she, gently: "'The reward is in the race we run, not in the prize.' Do your best, and then never mind who wins." Grace laughed nervously. "Ma doesn't care a speck," she thought. "You can't get ma eager about anything; but pa cares. O, dear me, won't I work hard just for the sake of pleasing pa!" It occurred to Grace that she must write at once to Cassy, and tell her what Mahla had said. Those mournful words, "Grace will get it," haunted her. It seemed to the child that she could not press forward and gain the prize without walking right over Mahla's heart. So Grace seated herself at the centre-table, and opened her little writing-desk; when her father, who had been quietly reading to himself, suddenly exclaimed, "Really, Maria, this is horrible," and began to read aloud an account of the last battle. When Grace heard any mention of the war, she either stopped her ears or ran away. Now she hastily gathered up her writing materials, and went into the kitchen, where Barbara sat with her unfailing black knitting-work. Barbara was very glad to have her tidy premises honored with a visit, and insisted upon bringing an arm-chair out of the dining-room for her guest. Grace seated herself at the kitchen table, which was as white as it could be scoured; but scarcely had she smoothed out her paper and written "Darling old Cassy," when Horace appeared in the door-way, making mysterious signals to Barbara. What could the boy mean? The good, foggy-brained German girl was sorely puzzled,--did not know the deaf and dumb alphabet, and could never take a hint.