If Calista was uncomfortable, Mary was still more so. She was really trying very hard to be a Christian, but on this particular point she had never learned to know herself, or to call things by their right names. She had often said to herself that she did not love money, or fine clothes, or gay amusements—all of which was true—therefore she did not love the world. But "the world" takes a great many shapes, and creeps in at a great many holes and corners; and whatever petty disguises it may put on, it is the same world still, the intimate ally and friend of "the flesh and the devil." Praise was Mary's "world"—appreciation she called it. She loved to stand well in the eyes of other people, to be called the best scholar and the neatest worker in school, the model member of the catechism class in church. She liked to know that she was pointed out as an example of early piety by the pastor, as a good sister and daughter at home. She loved the praise of men, and that love, as it always does, was beginning to spring up and bear fruit—poison fruit, which, if the vine was not plucked up by the roots, threatened to choke the word and make it unfruitful, as surely as the deceitfulness of riches would have done. It was coming to that with her that she did not like to have any one praised but herself—that she felt all commendation of another as so much taken from her own share. Miss McPherson had praised Mary's homely work more than her own exquisite netted fringe. That very morning, in the French class, she had told Anabella Adair that she had improved very much in accent and style, and had only included herself in the "very well, my dears," addressed to the whole class. And now, to crown all, she had given the charge of the little ones to Calista, who had not only taught them, but interested and amused them as well. No doubt the ungrateful little things were saying at that moment that they liked Miss Stanfield better than Miss Settson—very likely they would say so to Miss Meeks and Miss McPherson. Mary almost felt as though she could never come to school or speak to Calista again. John Bunyan, with that wonderful experimental knowledge which seems like inspiration, says that one leak is enough to sink a ship, and one sin to destroy a sinner. There is no doubt at all that one known and acknowledged sin is enough to undermine the Christian character of the best saint that ever lived, if it is indulged or harbored after its true character comes to be known.