“Why?” said Miss Oliphant, with sudden directness.
“Because—because—oh, I don’t know,” stammered poor Lorraine; “because she’s so splendid and so clever, and she always knows her lessons, and she writes such beautiful Themes, and—and I love her so!”
“Then I gather,” said Miss Oliphant, “that you wish the general prize to be awarded to Miss Fairfield because of your affection for her, and not because she has justly won it.”
“Oh no, Miss Oliphant, not that,” said Lorraine, in genuine distress at her inability to make herself understood. “But don’t you see, we’re even now, and if you could just give me a few less marks, and Patty a few more, it would be all right, and I don’t think that would be injustice, and then she’d have the prize.”
Miss Oliphant looked decidedly amused now. The smile in her eyes even showed itself a little on her rarely-smiling lips.
“Your sentiments toward your friend do you great credit, Miss Hamilton,” she said, “but I cannot say that I entirely approve of the means you propose to use. Do you think it right to mark pupils incorrectly?”
“Oh no, not as a general thing, Miss Oliphant. But I thought you wouldn’t mind just a little scanting of my record. No one need ever know.”
“I can’t promise exactly what you ask, Miss Hamilton; but I’m willing to say that in so far as it can be done within the most liberal interpretation of justice, it shall be.”
“Thank you, Miss Oliphant; good-afternoon,” and Lorraine slid away from the awe-inspiring presence, feeling as if she were being carried off wounded after a battle. But she couldn’t help thinking that it had been a victorious battle, for Miss Oliphant’s evident amusement seemed to imply an acquiescence in the plan.
The last day of the school term was nearly a week before Christmas. The closing exercises were of a somewhat elaborate nature and were held in the large assembly-room. The parents of the pupils were invited, and the audience was a large one.