’Till in Heaven’s pure sunshine,
Thy free branches wave!
Oh! thus may I meet it,
No longer a slave!
The next was a story, and Harriet Carlton’s eyes and cheeks changed color as she listened. It was the same, yet not the same! The incidents were hers, the sentiment more novel-like, and many a flowery and highly wrought sentence had been introduced, which she had never heard before.
She sat speechless with wonder, indignation, and dismay, and though several other inferior compositions were read, she was so absorbed in reverie, that she heard no more until she was startled by Mr. Wentworth’s voice calling her by name. She looked up. In his hand was the prize—a richly chased, golden pencil-case, suspended to a chain of the same material. The sound, the sight recalled her bewildered faculties, and ere she reached the desk, she had formed a resolution, which, however, it required all her native strength of soul to put in practice.
“Miss Carlton, the prize is yours!” and the teacher leaned forward to throw the chain around her neck. The child drew back—
“No, sir,” she said in a low, but firm and distinct voice, looking up bravely in his face, “I did not write the story you have read.”
“Not write it!” exclaimed Mr. Wentworth, “Why, then, does it bear your name? Am I to understand, Miss Carlton, that you have asked another’s assistance in your composition, and that you now repent the deception?”
Poor Harriet! this was too much! Her dark eyes first flashed, and then filled with tears; her lip trembled with emotion, and she paused a moment, as if disdaining a reply to this unmerited charge.