That day every one noticed a singular calmness and resolve in her manner. She passed the remaining examinations with thorough success, yet with an evident lack of interest in their result which all save her aunt were at a loss to understand.
At last the time came for the awarding of the medal. There was a little consultation among the examining committee, and then their chairman rose, with the medal in his hand.
“To Miss Helen Ash,” he began; but before he could proceed farther, Miss Helen Ash herself interrupted him.
Her face was as white as the dress she wore, and her eyes glittered with some strange fire of resolve or courage; but her voice was absolutely without a quiver of emotion in it, as steady and even as if she were beyond hope or fear.
“The medal does not belong to me,” she said. “My success was a false success. I dishonestly found the key to the French method, and corrected my mistakes by it, or I should have failed. The prize belongs, of right, to my cousin, Laura Mason.”
The chairman was a fussy little man, and was thoroughly discomposed by this interruption. He had had his little speech all ready, but it began with the name of Helen Ash, and he found it difficult to change it at a moment’s notice.
“Bless my heart!” he said quite unconsciously, and looking helplessly around him, he repeated, “Bless my heart!”
“Miss Laura Mason,” suggested one of his brethren on the committee; and thus reinforced, he began again,—
“Miss Laura Mason, I am very sorry—I mean I am very glad, to bestow on you this medal, which you have fairly earned by your success.”
And then he sat down, and his confusion was covered by a gentle little clapping of hands.