“Very badly. I know I haven’t a chance of the prize,” said Anne. “What’s the good of trying?”
“We must try,” said Grace, “it would please daddy so tremendously if we won.”
“But it would have been much better for us not to have tried,” said Anne; “that’s my opinion. For if we hadn’t tried he would not have been disappointed, now he will be—of course he will—when he knows that we both have failed.”
The girls now began to whisper in low tones with regard to the person who was likely to win the prize essay.
Grace sat down in a dejected way and folded her arms. “I’m sick of writing!” she said. “Where’s the good? I’m absolutely certain to fail. Alison will get the prize. I don’t see the use of going on.”
Kitty had been sitting very still, her eyes were wonderfully bright. Suddenly she spoke. “Grace,” she said, “if you get the miniature, what will your father do for you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Grace. “What do you mean?”
“Well, now, listen,” said Kitty. “I have a plan in my head. No one can say a word against you, Gracie, with regard to conduct, and I’m sure your face looks the essence of good-temper. Now, if your father gives you a handsome present, supposing you win the miniature, will you share it with me?”
Grace gave a big sigh. “You’re always wanting me to share things with you, Kitty,” she said. “I am sure Anne and I often feel that we can scarcely call our souls our own. I haven’t a chance of the miniature, so what’s the good of thinking about what dad will give me?”
“Well, Gracie, listen. Write your very best, your very, very best, and there’s no saying—there’s no saying at all. But do just promise, for the fun of it, that you’ll give me half of whatever your father sends to you.”