There is an old fairy tale found in almost every language, which has always seemed to me to shadow forth a great truth. It is that of a man beset by a demon or malign imp of some sort, for whom he is obliged to perform all sorts of hard tasks and pay all sorts of penalties, till he succeeds in discovering the true name of his tormentor, after which the thing has no more power, but flies discomfited. Mary had called her demons by their right names, and their power was broken for that time, at least. She was still on her knees when she was interrupted by a knock at the door and a call of: "Miss Mary!" "Yes, Miranda; what is it?" asked Mary, without opening the door. "Oh, nothing, only your pa and Miss Alice have gone out to old Mrs. Skovell's, at Greenwich, and won't be back till night. I thought maybe you wouldn't care about much dinner alone, so I just got you a cup of chocolate and a strawberry short-cake and some sandwiches. But I can cook some meat if you'd rather have it." "No, thank you, Miranda; I would rather have the chocolate than anything. I am in a hurry to get back to school." Mary did not feel like eating, but she took a cup of chocolate and a piece of the tempting short-cake, to spare Miranda's feelings, and hastened back to school. She went straight to the little school-room, where she knew she would find Miss Meeks. That lady looked up, when she entered, in surprise and some displeasure. She did not like to have her hour of leisure interrupted. "Miss Meeks," said Mary, in a voice which trembled a good deal, "I have come to tell you that what I said about Calista this morning was not true. She did use those words, but there was no disrespect in the way she used them, and I am sure she meant none. She was very much pleased because she succeeded so well, and I—" Mary's voice faltered, but she steadied it and went on—"I was provoked because she succeeded, and envious and jealous of her being praised." "So I saw," said Miss Meeks. "I am very glad you have come to a sense of your fault, Mary. I hope it will be a lesson to you to check the beginnings of a spirit of detraction, and I doubt not it will. I shall have to ask your help this afternoon, after all, for I am not feeling well." "I am sure I shall be very glad to help you," answered Mary, swallowing a great lump of pride which would rise in her throat at that "after all." "But where is Calista?" "Oh, she has gone home. Her aunt sent for her. I felt sorry for her, for I think she anticipated something not very pleasant. I fancy her aunt is an odd-tempered woman." "Odd-tempered is no name for it," said Mary. "Oh, well, I am sorry for her. I have had some experience. I don't know how it is," added Miss Meeks, musingly, "but all my life long it has been my fate to live with odd-tempered people."