"Very well, Priscilla," replied Annie, by no means offended, and speaking in a gentle, meek little voice. "I _have_ heard of worse things being done before, and I only meant to help you both. You are both my greatest friends. One of you wants to stay at school; the other wants to leave school. It can be done by such a very simple matter as changing your essays." "It is horrible--quite too horrible even to think about," was Priscilla's response. "But you said you didn't care about the prize." "No; but I do care about honour. I am bad, but I am not as bad as all that." "Well," said Annie, a little frightened at Priscilla's manner and the look on her face, "the whole thing can do me no good; I don't profit by it. I have got to stay at school, _nolens volens_; and I think I should prefer Mabel as my greatest friend for the next twelve months to you. You won't say anything about it, Priscie, for that would indeed be to ruin me, and I only meant to make you both happy." "Oh, of course I won't tell," said Priscilla. "I shall be leaving school in a fortnight, and then you won't ever see me again. I can promise you to keep quiet with regard to this proposal of yours for that time." "Very well," said Annie; "then that is all right. I will tell poor Mabel." "You don't mean that you have suggested the thing to her?" "Not exactly, but I have hinted at it--I mean at something--and she is very much interested. I'll have to tell her that my little scheme is up a tree. Poor old Mabel! She is such a dear, too. We shall be glad to keep her at school." "Really, Annie, you are too extraordinary. Have you written a paper for the literature prize yourself?" "I? Oh yes. But I have no imagination; not a bit. The subject is `Idealism'--such an odious, impossible subject; but it has appealed to you." "It did appeal to me very strongly; I loved to write about it." "I can fancy you at it; you are just full of imagination." "It is my dearest possession," said Priscilla. A _new_ look came into her eyes. She turned her fine face and looked at her companion. "And when I leave school," she added, "I shall take it with me. Even when I am working in the dairy and mending the children's socks I shall still rejoice in it. I am glad you reminded me of it--very glad." "Well, I wish you joy of your future life. I would have helped you, but you won't be helped." "You don't suppose," said Priscilla suddenly, "that I don't just long to catch at any straw? You don't suppose that I am not tempted? But even--even if I were to consider your base proposal for a single minute, what good on earth would it do me? The reason I am leaving school is because Uncle Josiah will not pay for my schooling. He certainly won't pay for it any more because I have not won the literature prize." "But if I can positively promise you--and I am almost sure it can be done--that your schooling will be paid in another way, what then?"