And this was all the remark he would deign to make concerning a piece of work which must have cost him many days of hard labor. Still, he was proud of his success, and for a long while afterward felt the keenest delight in seeing that table brought out for exhibition to visitors, or standing in a corner adorned with his sister's work-box. Grace had a bright face this morning, as Mrs. Clifford noticed at once. She sent her letter to the post-office by her father, then had a frolic with Horace, who was rather "wildish," and with little Katie, who, for a wonder, did not appear to be cutting a tooth that morning, and was "as cunning as a baby can be and live." As Grace entered the school-room, she met Mahla Linck, whose white face warmed to a glow at her friendly greeting. "She's the girl that thinks it's of no use to try for the prize," thought Grace. "Poor thing, I'll soon make her understand that she needn't be afraid of Grace Clifford." The school was called to order, and the teacher, a tall, fine-looking young lady, began to read the morning lesson in the New Testament. A part of the beautiful Sermon on the Mount was repeated by teacher and pupils. When they came to the words, "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them," Grace involuntarily glanced across the room to Mahla, who sat resting her head on her hand. Such a hand! You could trace its veins as easily as the blue lines in white paper. Her pale hair shone in the sun like threads of gold. Grace's eyes were fixed on the little girl with a sort of fascination. If anything could be done to help poor Mahla, she would do it. What though by helping her she should lessen her own chance of the prize? Never mind. Hadn't Christ made the Golden Rule? Grace had fought out the battle with herself the night before. She had put her hand to the plough, and would not look back. When recess-time came, Mahla had no heart for play, but kept her seat, still vexing herself over a question in analysis, which was buried in a fog. Grace watched her with real pity. It was almost unaccountable, she thought, how any one who had ever studied "Colburn's Mental" could be puzzled by anything in analysis. But Grace was a natural mathematician, and Mahla was not. When school was over at noon, the pale young German girl still sat biting her slate pencil, and pressing one colorless hand upon her throbbing temples. "Now, what is it, Mahla?" said the sweet voice of Grace Clifford, as she came and leaned over her friend's shoulder, her face covered with smiles. "I do believe you're puzzling over the same thing that vexes everybody so to-day. Want me to show you just a speck? For you'll catch the headache, Mahla, if you think so hard." Mahla gave a sigh of relief. "I don't know, Gracie; things seem to spin round and round; I can't get a start." [Illustration: Grace helping Mahla.]