There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Ann Houston, on Margaret’s side glibly said: “E-x-a-u-s-t-i-b-l-e.” “Wrong; be seated,” and with much sniffling and rubbing her eyes, Ann walked sorrowfully to her seat. The boy on Mable’s side shuffled his feet, looked up, down and around the room, and finally blurted out: “E-x-h-a-u-s-t-a-b-l-e.” “Wrong!” and Bobbie joined Ann in sorrowful silence. Rose Holcomb, the one remaining girl on Margaret’s side, had become rattled--she rolled her eyes wildly up and down and then guessed,--she made a very bad guess. “E-c-h-o-s-t-i-b-l-e!” and Rose was also counted out and took her seat, tossing her head and looking indifferently around. It was now Mable’s turn, and she had sufficient intelligence to have profited by the experience of Ann and Bobbie--had the word been pronounced to her first, she would probably have misspelled it, but now she spelled it out firmly and confidently, letter for letter, without a hitch. Now Mable faced Margaret for the final test--both were greatly excited, but their nervousness had passed--it was now that Margaret’s natural ability came to her aid. Word after word she spelled, and the crowd watched her in amazement. Here was the supposedly dull and backward pupil, the recognized “foot of the class,” standing up gallantly to the last against Mable, the favorite, to whom everybody had conceded the prize as already won. The largest cities in America, in South America and Europe, proper names, animals,--the words became more and more difficult. Finally, the names of flowers were given--Mable had studied botany and was familiar with flowers--Margaret was now relying on her natural ability and nerve--all things come to an end, and at last the teacher pronounced the name of the flower-- “F-U-C-H-S-I-A.” Now it is a fact that there is probably no more tricky word in the English language than this--it all depends upon where to place the letter “s.” Mable knew what fuchsias were,--knew all about the different parts, the petals, the stem,--she had spelled the word correctly many times, but, alas, she was a trifle hasty and exclaimed: “F-U-S-C-H-I-A.” “Wrong!”--Mable burst into tears,--and with loud sobs ran to her seat and threw herself down, her face buried in her arms. All eyes were now on Margaret. She was strongly tempted to spell this commencing “ph”--it seemed correct, but something told her that Mable had been almost right. Almost, but not quite! Mable’s dramatic finish had given her time to think for a moment, and when the word was once more pronounced she was ready--without hesitation she spelled slowly and distinctly: “F-U-C-H-S-I-A.” “Correct,--Margaret, you have won the prize.”