"No use, Di. I could, perhaps, if it wasn't for Gracie Clifford; but she's so smart in arithmetic she'll get it. O, I'm sure she will."
And as Mahla spoke she seemed to lean more helplessly on her crutch, and to limp more painfully than ever. She little knew that every word she spoke was overheard by Grace Clifford, and was sinking deep into her heart.
Mahla was a gentle, studious girl, pitied by every one for her incurable lameness, and beloved for the sweet patience with which she bore her great sufferings. It was certainly Grace's intention, and had been ever since the promise of a prize, to try for it; but when she heard Mahla's hopeless words she was grieved, and felt an impulse to rush forward and throw her arms about the poor girl's neck, and say, "Now don't be afraid of me, Mahla. I'll not stand in your way."
But this impulse Grace checked at once. In the first place, it would have been a silly parade of sentiment, she thought; and, in the second place, ambition was a strong feature in Grace's character; she could not, without a struggle, give up the hope of a prize.
By this time she and Isabel had crossed the street, and heard nothing more that passed between Mahla and her companion.
"Well, Gracie, dear," said Isa, "I'd be ashamed, if I was Di Jones, to talk about Mahla Linck's getting this prize, when Di knows well enough Mahla isn't half so good a scholar as you are."
"O, but she is, though, Isa," said Grace, faintly. "Mahla's very studious, very, indeed."
"Studious? Yes, she stays in from recess because she can't play. Now, if Cassy was here, she'd try for the prize—wouldn't she, Gracie?"
"I dare say—I don't know."
"Well, she's the last person to be afraid of," said Isa, sharply. She could never speak of Cassy without a feeling akin to anger. The thought of the tender friendship which existed between Grace and Cassy was like gall and wormwood to the unhappy, jealous little girl.