“It’s all very well the clergy telling us to pray,” she would say, getting back into bed. “But I can’t. Every time I would do it something stops me. I’ve lost God, and where He’s gone to I can’t tell. And I suppose everybody would blame me and say how wicked I was, but it’s because they don’t understand. If I could believe in God and pray to Him as I did when I was a little girl I’d be a deal happier and stronger than I am.” And so it came to the last few weeks of college life—the time for the awarding of prizes for the year. Probably all those who have attended schools have experienced that general dissatisfaction which customarily attends the distribution of prizes. “It’s all done by favouritism,” the girls used to assert. “The way the prizes are given here is a disgrace.” And one or two rather flagrant examples were given by way of specifying. “Yes,” said Deborah, who understood things just as well as most people. “I can’t understand what pleasure there is in receiving prizes under such circumstances.” “But you’ll get one yourself,” remarked one of the girls. “You’re bound to get the composition prize.” “Well that would only be fair,” cried another girl, and for a wonder all the others chimed in “Yes.” “Don’t be too sure,” observed another, and she nodded her head wisely. “I’ve been watching Jane Shaw lately.” “But Deborah’s essays are splendid. Jane’s are only very good,” urged a would-be champion. “Don’t be too sure,” retorted the same wiseacre, and she went to bed. The next day Jane came to Deborah. “You will get the composition prize,” she said somewhat ungraciously. “I don’t think so,” rejoined Deborah, but she knew she was not speaking the truth. “Yes, you will,” she answered sharply. “I have kept count of our marks for the year.” “You don’t mean to say you’ve kept count for a year,” said Deborah, in wonderment. “Of course I have,” she replied with a little toss of her head. “I always like to know exactly where I stand.” After a pause she continued: “Of course I have stood no chance from the very first. I lost twenty marks right out once because the Principal differed from some remarks of mine.” “Indeed.” “Of course, and I do not consider it fair that I should have lost them. You, and such as you, write simply according to the college rule.” Deborah was silent. Probably Jane did not know how rude she was, and with her parting hit she went away. Then that pride, the only strong and lasting pride in Deborah’s composition, asserted itself. “Why should I enter into the competition with such as Jane?” she thought. “She may have the prize with pleasure. So long as I know I am really first I don’t care about the marks or the prize one bit.” Another girl came running up to her. “I say, I’ve just been adding up the composition marks and you are first.” Deborah began to think seriously. She did not want the prize and Jane did, and the last fortnight’s unceasing talk about prizes had sickened her.