"I said I was glad," replied Cassy, in a softer tone. "I mean glad you didn't take off the ring and go hide it. I supposed you did, just to let me see you didn't care for me any more." A complete revulsion of feeling had come over Grace: she laughed and cried in a breath. "O, you old Cassy! to think I ever could--" "There," said her friend, placidly, "let it all go." "But I can't let it go; it's a downright wicked shame. Now, Cassy, I ask you if we ought to allow such a girl as Isa in our R. S. S.?" "Not if I was queen, we wouldn't," was the decided answer. Now that the reconciliation was complete, Cassy declared she had a world to say, and Grace replied that she had "a hemisphere to say, herself." Then she told the story of the gypsy, and made confession that her dismal fortune had kept her awake "night after night." "Humph!" said Cassy; "nothing ever keeps _me_ awake! Thunder can't, nor cannons; and I'm sure that crazy old woman couldn't. What about the prize, Gracie?" "O, I don't know, Cassy; I've taken Mahla into Square Root." "Why, Gracie, what made you? You won't get that splendid present from your pa!" "O, Cassy," sighed Grace, "I thought I'd be good, just once, and do as the Bible said, and see how it would seem." "The Bible says so many things!" said Cassy, thoughtfully. "Yes, Cassy; but I mean the Golden Rule. Why, I never mistrusted that rule was so beautiful. It just makes me love Mahla dearly." Cassy's brown eyes kindled with sympathy; but she exclaimed, suddenly,-- "Come, let's go in the kitchen and talk German with Barby." Horace set by the white table, sighing over his Geography. Robert came in, looking mischievous. "What say to a story, girls?" said he, glancing at Grace. "I'll begin with a landscape, book-fashion:-- "Twas a lovely evening in May. The aged stars were twinkling as good as new; the moon was 'resting her chin' against a cloud: the serene heavens--" "Stop," cried Horace; "that's not a landscape: it's a skyscape." "What's that you say? You've interrupted me, and now I'll have to begin again:-- "The new moon was shaking down her silver hair most mournfully, or, in other words, she looked at a distance like a slice of green cheese. I had been giving a few elegant touches to the flower-beds, pulling out the weeds, pig and chick, you know, and--well, suffice it to say, I wended my way across a verdant lawn, not twenty miles from here. I went into a house. It was all papered and pictured. The master of the house offered me no seat, for he was not at home; but I helped myself to a sort of feather-bed chair near a window. I took my handkerchief out of my pocket in this way; a key came out with it, as you see now, and dropped into the chair. It slipped between the stuffed cushion and the back of the chair. I put in my thumb, and drew out--" "A plum," suggested Horace. "The key." The children looked as if they had been trifled with.