Then followed the reading of the compositions, Mildred being called upon first. In a clear peculiarly sweet voice she read, chaining to perfect silence her audience, which, when she was done, greeted her with noisy cheers, whispering one to another that she was sure to win. Arabella, at her own request, was the last. With proud, flashing eyes and queenly air, she coolly surveyed the mass of heads before her, caught an admiring glance from George Clayton, and then, with a steady hand unrolled her manuscript and read. Her subject was ‘The Outward and the Inward Life,’ and no gray-haired sage ever handled it more skilfully than she. When she finished one universal burst of applause shook the building to its centre, while her name was on every lip as she triumphantly left the room. Just then a distant bell struck the hour of nine, and George Clayton arose to go. He was sure of Arabella’s success, and in the hall below, whither she had gone to bid him adieu, he shook her hand warmly, telling her how happy it made him to see her thus victorious, and winning from her a promise to write to him when he should be over the sea. Half an hour later and the night express was bearing him far away. Half an hour later, and with flushed brow Arabella stood up and received the prize, which consisted of two elegantly bound volumes of Wordsworth and Coleridge. Forty minutes later, and from the seat by the door, a little bent, weird-looking woman arose, and making her way through the crowd, advanced until she stood upon the stage, then stretching her long, bony finger toward Arabella, who had returned, she said, ‘I am a lover of justice, and should I hold my peace, the very stones would cry out against me. Yonder young lady has no right to the prize, for the piece which she has palmed off as her own appeared in the _Woodland Gazette_, a paper published in an obscure New Hampshire village. How she came by it, she can, perhaps, explain, but I cannot.’ At the commencement of this strange speech, Arabella arose as if to defy the woman, who was thus blasting her good name, but at the mention of the _Woodland Gazette_ she fainted and was carried from the room. Madame Duvant now came forward and addressed a few, low spoken words to the woman, who answered aloud, ‘I have the best of reasons for what I have said. My son, who lives in New Hampshire, occasionally sends me the _Gazette_, and in one number, which came nearly a year ago, appeared this very article, taken originally from an old English paper.’ ‘Prove it! Produce the paper!’ fiercely ejaculated Mrs. Greenleaf, as she left the room in quest of her daughter. ‘I can do so,’ answered the woman; ‘I never tore up a newspaper in my life, and if the audience will wait for the space of ten minutes, I can show them the very article’—saying which she glided noiselessly from the room.