She returned to the schoolroom in silence, her mind full of two ideas: the first, that she had obtained the prize; the second, that she had deceived Miss Elgin.
"But I have not told an untruth," she argued with her conscience. "I was asked if any one helped me. Julia did not help me. I only saw and read her paper accidentally."
It was very trying work, arguing with conscience when a number of chattering girls were buzzing about, laughing and asking questions, and Ruth gave several sharp and pettish replies to their inquiries, and was rallied upon her silence and her grave face.
How often it happens that our hardest battles have to be fought in the midst of a crowd, that our moments of sharpest agony and keenest remorse come at a time when we long for solitude, but cannot obtain it, but must go on speaking and acting as if our minds were quite at ease, and full of nothing but the trifling affairs of the moment.
Ruth's conscience was very active, and would keep reminding her that it was not yet too late to go and confess to Miss Elgin. But she put it off. Alas! every moment that had elapsed since she gave up the paper rendered such a task more difficult; the longer she concealed her fault the more serious it became. Looking quite pale and wretched, she returned home that afternoon with a splitting headache. Her aunt was quite troubled about her, though she tried to make light of it, and Mr. Woburn said cheerily, "You must make haste and get well for to-morrow, Ruth. I suppose you will have a grand prize to bring home after all this term's work."
"Indeed, I would rather not go to-morrow morning," she replied sincerely, as she wished them good-night.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE PRIZE.
But when the morning came she could find no plausible excuse for absenting herself from the prize-giving. Her head was better, though she still looked pale, and Mrs. Woburn, who was to accompany the two girls, would not hear of her remaining at home.