When school began Ray was in his accustomed place, much to Edward Lawton's disgust, for he had secretly cherished the hope that his antagonist, as he called him, would be obliged to recite privately to Mr. Greenough that term. When he found, however, that Ray had begun the term with the intention of keeping on to the end, his rage knew no bounds, and he resolved upon the scheme of petty annoyances already alluded to. An opportunity, too, to vent his malice, and at the same time to put Ray to great inconvenience, was right at hand. The weather was still cold, and the ice on the bay was hard and firm. Ray, taking advantage of this circumstance, had come over to the village on his skates. Those skates were the pride of his heart, for they were of the real "Acme all-clamp" pattern, and had been presented to him the Christmas before, by Mr. and Mrs. Woodhull. He had found a constant use for them during the winter, and had been accustomed to hang them in the coat room with his hat and coat, during recitation hours. They had never been molested, and with no thought of their being injured, he on that morning hung them in the usual place. His astonishment and grief may well be imagined, then, when at the close of school he took them down, to find the clasps broken, and even the runners themselves injured. There was no hope of fixing them even; they were broken absolutely beyond repair. Suppressing the cry of indignation that came to his lips on discovering the despicable trick, he put the broken skates under his arm, and hurried out of the schoolhouse. But the quick eye of Daisy Lawton had noticed his pale and excited face, and a glance at the skates as he tucked them under his arm told her the cause. She hurried from the schoolroom as quickly as he, and then ran breathlessly up the street. With mingled feelings of indignation and sorrow, Ray walked slowly down the street. He was indignant that any one had dared to perpetrate so dastardly an act, and sorrowful that any one could find it in their heart to do him so great a wrong. He tried not to accuse any one, but in spite of himself, the malignant look Edward Lawton had given him early that afternoon would come back to him. "He is the only one I know of in the whole school who would feel like doing the cowardly deed," he said to himself, more in pity than in anger; "but no one shall learn from me that the outrage was ever committed." Then a peaceful look came over his face. "I can, at least, pray for him, and maybe I can in some way show him that I am his friend."