except the names spoken by the two captains, and the brisk footsteps of the youths and maidens crossing the room, as they were called, now to Grace’s side, now to James’s, there to stand like two rows of soldiers on drill.

Miss Pike could not but observe the sparkle of satisfaction in some faces, and the gloom of disappointment in others; and she rejoiced with the good spellers and grieved with the poor ones, like the dear, kind woman she was.

Out of courtesy, Mary Gray and Fanny Townsend were chosen among the first. James Hunnicut supposed it would be ungallant to neglect visitors, though he did wince a little as he called Mary Gray’s name, thinking, “What do I want of a baby like that? Of course she’ll miss every word.”

Mary answered James’s call with a throbbing heart, proud, delighted, yet afraid. Next Grace Mallon called Fred Allen, and thought, when he walked over to her side with his well-bred air, that she had secured a prize. How could she suspect that a distinguished-looking lad like that was not a “natural speller,” and did not always do as well as he knew, on account of his habit of speaking before he thought? In fact, he missed the very first word, exactly, making the first syllable eggs in his ruinous haste. Of course he knew better, but no allowance was made for mistakes, and like a flash the word was passed across the room to Mary, who spelled it correctly.

Fred felt disgraced, lost all confidence, and, if he had dared, would have asked to be excused from duty. Captain Grace would have excused him gladly, but such a thing was never heard of; he must stand at his post, and blunder all the evening.

It was the custom, when a word was missed on one side and corrected on the other, for the successful captain to swell his own numbers by “choosing off” one from the enemy’s ranks. Captain James now “chose off” one of Captain Grace’s best soldiers, and the game went on.

Next time it was one of Captain James’s men—Fanny Townsend—who blundered, and it was Captain Grace’s turn to choose off.

For some time the numbers were about even; but as Fred Allen invariably missed, and there were Jack Townsend and other poor spellers below him to keep him company, Captain James began to have a decided advantage. He kept choosing off again and again,—Mary Gray, among the rest,—while Captain Grace bit her lips in silence.

But the moment she had it in her power she called a name in a ringing voice, and it was “Mary Gray.” Mary had spelled all her words promptly,—they had usually been hard ones, too,—and her blue eyes danced as she tripped across the room in answer to the call. Was there a ray of triumph in her glance as it fell on cousin Fred, who was propping his head against the wall, trying to look easy and unconcerned? Fred, who was so much older than herself, and ciphering at the very end of the arithmetic? Fred, who had always looked down on little Flaxie as rather light-minded?

There he stood, and there he was likely to stand, and Jack Townsend, too, while the favorite spellers with ill-concealed satisfaction were walking back and forth conquering and to conquer.

Mary Gray was called for as often as the oldest scholar in the room, and, as she flitted from east to west, her head grew as light with vanity as the “blowball” of a dandelion. She threw it back airily, and smiled in a superior way when poor Fred missed a word, as if she would like to say to the scholars, “I came here with that dunce, it’s true, but please don’t blame me because he can’t spell.”

“That’s a remarkably bright, pretty little girl, but I fancy she wouldn’t toss her head so if there was much in it,” whispered Mr. Garland’s nephew to Miss Pike, while Mr. Garland was putting out the words.

Miss Pike had been pained by Mary’s silly behavior, but replied:—

“You are wrong, quite wrong, Mr. Porter, she is a dear little girl and has plenty of sense.”

It was positively gratifying to the good lady afterwards to hear Mary mis-spell the word pillory, for the mortification humbled her, and from that moment there was no more tossing of curls.

When the time was up, Captain James’s side had conquered most victoriously, numbering twice as many as the other side. The two captains bowed to each other and the game was over. Then Fred Allen, Fanny Townsend, and all the other wallflowers were allowed at last to move. It was time to go home.

The girls and boys, all shawled and hooded and coated and capped, went toward the door, chatting and laughing.

James Hunnicut said to Grace Mallon, “Beg your pardon; I didn’t mean to take all your men.”

“Oh,” returned Grace, undaunted, “I had men enough left, and dare say I should have got every one of yours away from you if we’d only played half an hour longer.”

“Ah, you would, would you? Well, we’ll try it again and see. Isn’t that little girl of Dr. Gray’s a daisy?”

“Not quite equal to the Allen boy; I admire him,” returned Grace in an undertone; but Fred heard and buttoned his overcoat above a swelling heart.

“Good night, we’re all so glad you came,” said Miss Pike, shaking hands warmly with him and Mary. Then off she went, and half the school followed, walking and riding by twos and threes and fours.

But where, oh where, in the name of all the spelling-schools, was Fred’s horse? There wasn’t the shadow of him to be seen. Where was Fred’s sleigh? There was not so much as the tip of a runner in sight. Where was Mr. Fling? Gone to Canada, perhaps, the smooth-faced deceitful wretch!

Fred would “have a sheriff after him,” so he assured cousin Flaxie, and that immediately.

Mary stamped her little low-heeled boots to keep her feet warm, and highly approved of the plan.

“Oh yes, Fred, do call a sheriff; I’m perfectly willing;” and the situation seemed delightfully tragic, till somebody laughed, and then it occurred to her that sheriffs, whatever they may be, do not grow on bushes or in snow-banks. And, of course, Mr. Fling had not gone to Canada, Fred knew that well enough; he had only “dropped in” at somebody’s house and forgotten to come out.

“The people, wherever he is, ought to send him home,” said James Hunnicut sympathetically.

“That’s so,” assented two or three others. “It’s abominable to go ’round calling with a borrowed horse and sleigh.”

So much pity was galling to both Mary and Fred, making them feel like young children, who ought not to have been trusted without a driver. Why wouldn’t everybody go away and leave them. The situation would surely be less embarrassing if they faced it alone.

Fred was angry and undignified. He had had as much as he could bear all the evening, and this was a straw too much. Mary, on the other hand, had enjoyed an unusual triumph; but how her feet did ache with cold! The blood had left them hours ago to light a blazing fire in her head; and now to stand on that icy door-stone was torture!

“I know I shall freeze, but I’ll bear it,” thought she, taking gay little waltzing steps. “How they do admire me, and it would spoil it all to cry. Why, all the great spelling I could do in a year wouldn’t make up for one cry.”

Just as she had got as far as to remember that she had heard of a man whose feet “froze and fell