On the day appointed, Harriet and I went over by Miss Bennett's request, to see the prize delivered to her who should be found to deserve it. A lamb had been chosen by Mr. Mackay, and without telling Mary any thing of it, he had had a small silver collar engraved, "reward of merit." After the lamb had been washed as white as snow, this had been put on it, and a blue riband tied to the collar by which the lamb might be led, so that Jessie, should she win it, would have no difficulty in getting it home. As I entered my brother's house, I met Jessie and Mary in the piazza. Mary was talking very earnestly, and I heard her say, "There is your box, Jessie. Don't open it till you give it to papa."

"But I must open it, Mary. I want to divide the cards, so as not to give Mr. Mackay much trouble."

"Nonsense, Jessie—what does papa care for trouble? You must not open it, I tell you. I have counted the cards, and you will have the lamb."

"Mary, how can you laugh at me so? You know that I cannot get it."

At this moment Mary was called away by her mother. I had watched her closely, and I thought I could see some roguery in the demure smile which played around her mouth, in spite of her evident efforts to be serious. As soon as she was out of sight, Jessie seated herself on the steps and took out her tickets. They were already made into parcels, and I saw her turn her eyes with a wondering look from one to the other,—then she loosed the string which tied each parcel together, counted them rapidly, and then, dropping them into the box, said, "What does this mean?"

I began to be quite interested in this little mystery, of which I suspected Mary knew more than anybody else, so when I went into the schoolroom, I took my seat at a window, the sash of which was raised, and which overlooked the piazza, and kept my eye on Jessie. I was scarcely seated before Mary ran up to her. As soon as she was near enough to see the box opened and the cards loosed, she cried out in a vexed tone, "And so, Jessie, you would open the box after all?"

"Oh, Mary!" said Jessie, "it is the strangest thing—my blank cards are almost all gone, and here are a great many more merit cards than I had. Where can they come from?"

Mary seemed very much amused, and said, "Why, Jessie, I think a good fairy must have put them there."

Jessie looked up into her laughing face for a moment, and then said, "Now, Mary, I know how it came—you put them there just to tease me. Make haste and let us get them right before they call us. I ought to have ten merit cards and four blanks, and here are only two blanks and seventeen merit cards. Take yours, Mary, and give me mine—quick—before Miss Bennett calls us."

As she spoke, she held out the box, but Mary stepped back, saying very positively, "Indeed, Jessie, I will not do any such thing."

Jessie looked at her a moment, and seeing by her countenance that she was resolved not to do it, turned round, saying, "Well, I must go and tell your father just how it is."

She went towards the door, but before she reached it, Mary caught her and drew her back, saying, as she did so, "Jessie, if you say a word to my father or Miss Bennett or anybody about it, I will never play with you again or love you, as long as I live."

Her face was red, and she spoke in a very angry tone.

"Oh! don't talk so, Mary," said Jessie, "please don't talk so. You would not have me tell your father a story, and it would be just like telling him a story if I gave him your cards for mine."

"You need not give them to him," said Mary, "I will do it myself, and Aunt Kitty said it would not be any harm in me to do it. I told you that you would have the lamb, and I am determined you shall have it."

"But I don't want it," said Jessie; "I hate the lamb, and I don't want it."

"It is very ungrateful in you to say so, and I know you do it just to vex me. I know you cannot help wanting that pretty little lamb with its silver collar; and then it would please your father and mother and grandmother so much to see the reward of merit on it."

"But what good would their being pleased do me when I knew I had told a story to get it?" said Jessie mournfully.

"You are very obstinate, Jessie," said Mary; "did not I tell you that you need not say a word, and that I would give papa the cards myself—so how can you tell a story about it? Besides, I will tell him the whole truth by-and-by, when I have had my fun out."

"Will you, Mary, will you tell him the whole truth—and is it only just for fun?"

"To be sure it is, or I would not say so,—so now, Jessie, give me the cards at once like a good girl, and I will love you so dearly," kissing her as she spoke, "and just go in the schoolroom quietly, and look as sober as you can while they are counting them."

With a reluctant hand Jessie gave up the box, saying, "Remember, Mary, it is just for fun, and you will tell your father before I go home."

"I will tell him in the right time," said Mary; "but if you do not make haste into the schoolroom we will not be there in the right time," and she ran quickly and joyously in—while Jessie followed more slowly and timidly.

Mary went straight to her father, who sat with Miss Bennett near a table, and gave him first a parcel containing her own cards, then handing him the box, said, "Jessie's are in this box, papa." Her father took them, smilingly, from her, and she then came and stood by Jessie, who had placed herself not far from me. The cards were counted. In Mary's parcel were twenty merit cards and eight blanks, which, taken from the others, left her only twelve. Jessie, it was found, had only two blanks to be taken from seventeen merit cards; she could therefore count fifteen, and the lamb was declared to be hers. I had looked steadily upon her while my brother and Miss Bennett were counting, and I saw that she looked very pale, except once when she caught Miss Bennett's eye, and then her face became very red, and her eyes filled with tears. As my brother said, "Jessie has won the prize," she looked imploringly at Mary and whispered, "Now, Mary—please, Mary, tell him now,"—but Mary turned away and seemed not to hear her.

My brother went into the next room and led in the lamb.

Again I heard Jessie's pleading tones, "Now, Mary—please, Mary, now,"—but Mary said nothing.

The lamb was led up to Jessie, and my brother, saying to her, "Here is your prize, my good little girl, which you have well deserved," would have put the riband into her hand, but instead of taking it, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed out, "I cannot take it, sir—indeed I cannot take it, for it is not mine, it is Mary's, and I must tell if she should be ever so angry with me."

Mr. Mackay looked around as for some one to explain Jessie's meaning, but as no one said any thing, he again addressed himself to Jessie herself: "But, my dear, why should you not take it? Perhaps you think, because Mary had most merit cards, the lamb should have been hers,—but you must remember, she had so many more blanks to be taken from them, that they left her with less than you. As for Mary's being angry with you, I am sure you need not be afraid of that,—Mary is not so selfish and unjust as to be angry with her friend for doing better than herself."

"Oh no, sir! that is not it—Mary wanted me to have the lamb, but—"

Jessie stopped, and Miss Bennett now came up to Mr. Mackay and said, "I believe I can explain this. Jessie is very properly grieved at having done a very wrong thing. You may remember that I said I would keep no account of the merit cards given, in order to induce the children to be careful, but Jessie seems to have forgotten that I did not say the same of the blanks; of these I did take note, and I am grieved to find, on reference to my memorandum, that two of Jessie's blanks have been added to Mary's."

Miss Bennett spoke in a very grave tone, and looked at Jessie very severely. She would have said something more, but Mary—who, half ashamed and half angry, had stood with her eyes cast down and the corners of her mouth twitching as if she were just ready to cry—now looked up and interrupted her by exclaiming, "You are very wrong indeed, Miss Bennett, to think Jessie had any thing to do with it. It was I that did it, on purpose that Jessie might have the lamb, and she never knew a word of it till just as we came in, and then she begged me to tell, and I would not. So there—it is all told now—and the next time I try to give anybody any thing, it shall be some one who will be more grateful for it than Jessie."

Poor Jessie! she cried as if her heart would break, and tried to take Mary's hand while she said, "Indeed, indeed, Mary, I could not help it."

But Mary would not be coaxed—she withdrew her hand and turned sullenly away. Mr. Mackay looked at her sorrowfully, then stooping down he unclasped the collar from the lamb's neck, and tying the riband in its place, held it to her while he said, "You have won the prize, Mary,—take it—but I must take off the collar. I cannot give a reward of merit to a girl who thinks a lamb more valuable than truth and honesty."

It was now Mary's turn to weep and Jessie's to defend her. "Oh! Sir, do not blame Mary—it was all from kindness to me, sir—indeed it was—and you know, sir, Mary would not tell a story for any thing in the world."

"And yet Mary wished you, Jessie, to tell a story, and to take what you knew did not justly belong to you, and now is angry with you because you were not willing to do so. Either Mary is not very kind to you, or, as I said before, she values more the lamb she would have given you, than the truth and honesty she would have had you give up for it."

Jessie was silenced for a minute, and though Mary continued to weep, it was more gently. Mr. Mackay stood before the children, still holding the lamb,—which Mary seemed as little disposed to take as Jessie,—and looking very gravely. At length Jessie raised her eyes to him and said, "I do not think Mary is angry with me because I would not take the lamb, sir; she is only a little vexed because I did not do as she wanted me to."

We all smiled as Jessie said this, and Mr. Mackay answered, "I believe you are quite right, my dear little girl,"—then, putting his hand on Mary's head, he added, "My daughter, we will leave you alone for a little while, to think whether you are most sorry that Jessie Graham has lost the prize, or that Mary Mackay has not had her own way altogether."

He was turning away when Mary spoke, though in so low a tone that no one could hear her. Mr. Mackay, putting his head down to her, asked what she said, and she repeated, "I do not think it was wrong in me to want Jessie to get the lamb and to give her my cards that she might get it."

"Are you quite sure, Mary, that you did wish Jessie to win the prize? Do you think you would have been pleased that she should have got the lamb in any other way than by your giving it to her? Still, however this may be, the wish to give it was generous, and far from thinking it wrong, I am more pleased with it in my daughter, than even with her studiousness and punctuality;—but, was it right in you, when your kind intention could not be accomplished without a very wrong action in Jessie, to wish that she should do it, and to be angry with her because she would not? Ought you to have thought so much more of your generosity than of Jessie's truth?" Mr. Mackay waited a little while for an answer, then said, "Speak, Mary—was this right?"

While her father had been speaking to her, Mary had ceased to weep, though she still kept her head down, and her face covered with her hands. Even now she could not lift her eyes, though she raised her head a little as she said, almost in a whisper, "No, papa."

Jessie, whose eyes had been fixed upon Mary with the most earnest, anxious look you can imagine, now put her arm quickly around her neck, exclaiming in a joyful tone, "Then, Mary, you will not be vexed with me any more, will you?"

"No, Jessie," said Mary, kissing her, "it was very wicked in me to be vexed with you just because you were good."

"Now, my dear Mary," said Mr. Mackay, "in taking blame for your own fault, and giving to your friend the credit she deserves, you are indeed generous, and I may now put back the lamb's collar—you merit the reward."

As he spoke, he kissed both the little girls. Mary sprang into her father's arms and hid her face on his shoulder. As she did so, I saw that there were tears in her eyes, yet she smiled and looked very happy. In a little while she looked up, and seeing Jessie seated on the floor playing with the lamb, said, laughing, "Why, Jessie, I thought you hated the lamb."

"Not now, Mary," said Jessie, "I love it now."

And now it will be easy for my little readers to see that the one thing which Jessie loved more than Mary was "Truth."