Unfortunately Florence had not even the first rough draft of her essay. After having copied it she had torn it up and thrown it away.
Her schoolmates sympathized with her in her loss; but all their regrets did not restore the missing paper.
To lose that essay on which she had worked so hard and which was to have gained for her so much applause! What a trial.
It was a terrible disappointment; and it required all her self-control to keep back her tears when her rival read her composition.
Florence knew that her’s was a better one, and so all the girls felt who had heard it. So also Susan knew; and when Mr. Worcester pronounced that the prize had been awarded to her by the decision of the committee on essays, and bade her come forward to receive it, she said, as she approached him, in a voice so low that it reached his ear alone,—
“Mr. Worcester, if you please, I had rather not take it. I heard Florence read her’s last night, and I know it was better than mine. Please give the prize to her!”
Mr. Worcester looked at her admiringly.
“Your proposition does you honour,” he said: then, turning to the audience, he continued:—
“In justice to Miss Florence Anderson, I must say a few words.”
He then told of her loss and of her school-mate’s generous proposal. He paid Florence a just compliment on the excellence of her usual compositions, and regretted her misfortune. “Yet, Miss Susan,” he concluded, “the committee are obliged to decide on the merits of the articles submitted to them; and, however much we regret that Miss Florence’s was not among the number, the prize is fairly your’s.”