"Oh, yes, she is the eighth wonder of the world, no doubt! But I don't think I shall send anything to the table, or go to the meetings any more. If my work is not worth noticing, it certainly is not worth selling." "Look here, Mary," said Calista, gravely, "you are always lecturing me about loving the world, and now I am going to lecture you a little. You think a great deal too much about being praised—about having people think well of you. Now it seems to me that the praise of men, as Elizabeth Howell says, is just as much one of the things of the world that we are not to love, as money or fine clothes. Of course we all like the good opinion of our friends; but when it comes to being distressed because somebody else is asked to do something, or because some other person's work is praised more than one's own, why I think it is time to take a look and see where one is going." Mary was silent, and twisted her chair. She felt the words were true, and she did not like them any the better for that. She had always assumed a certain superiority over her friend, to which Calista had humbly assented, and it was not agreeable to be taken to task in her turn. "Come, don't let's spoil our recess," said Calista, in a lighter tone; "you know you promised to teach me the fan stitch, and I brought my needles on purpose." "You had better ask Mary Burns to show you," answered Mary, in a tone which was meant to be dignified, but was only stiff; "I don't know that I care about teaching any one who has such an opinion of me as you seem to entertain. I thought I had one friend at least in the school, but it seems I was mistaken!" And Mary's wounded feelings and temper—two things which are apt to get very much mixed up together—found vent in a flood of tears. "Nonsense!" said Calista, vexed in her turn. "Mary, you are too absurd. You are always lecturing me, and I am content you should; but the minute I say a word to you, you flare up in this way. I should think I had enough to put up with, without your turning on me. I don't know but that is the 'spirit of Christ,'" she concluded, alluding to the verse Mary had repeated in the morning, "but I must say it does not seem much like it to me." And with this parting shot, which was a sufficiently sharp one, Calista went away and left Mary to her own reflections. "Dear me!" she said to herself, in some natural impatience. "It does seem as if I never could be comfortable half an hour together. Who would ever have thought of her taking matters in that way!"