The young ladies had always to write an extract from one of the sermons they had heard at church on the sabbath day. In this exercise of memory Miss Damer particularly excelled; the most difficult sermon she could transcribe almost word for word. This had excited the spirit of envy in Miss Vincent. The week after the dispute upon the medal, when Miss Damer opened her book, wherein she had written a sermon with extreme neatness, she found every line so scrawled, that one word could not be distinguished from another. Surprised at this proof of secret malice, she involuntarily gave the book to Miss Cotton, who was seated by her. Mrs. Adair, however, desired to look at it. After examining every page, she said, and at the same time fixed her eyes upon Miss Vincent, “I pity the young lady who has done this; she has betrayed one of the meanest passions of the human mind.” She now looked anxiously round the room; “I see few countenances,” she added, “where envy reigns.

“Miss Vincent, had you ever this book in your hand? speak in a moment—yes, or no: I want no other word!”

“No, ma’am; I never had the book in my hand, I can declare with truth.”“Miss Bruce, is this your work? for I know you are a little busy-body.”

“O no, ma’am! I would not blot any lady’s book for the world.”

Mrs. Adair now turned to Miss Arden: “my dear, have you been amusing yourself with your companion’s book?”

“No, ma’am.”

“The mystery, I think, will soon be explained: and I fear I shall find that there has been more artifice than truth in a young lady’s assertion. Come hither, Isabella, I wish to speak to you.”

Little Isabella’s features betrayed confusion and terror: and as she slowly walked up the room, she burst into tears. “Do not be afraid,” said Mrs. Adair, in a soothing tone of voice, “I am not angry with you. Tell me plainly how it was. What did your sister say to you?”

“O, ma’am, she said—O dear, I wish I were at home—”

“Come, speak the truth, my dear. You know you are one of my best little girls. Tell me how you were led into this error. Speak openly, and do not be afraid.”

“I have not done it—I mean, I have—O dear, where is mamma?”

“Happy at home, I make no doubt. But were papa and mamma here, it would make no difference, for I must have the truth. Did you mark this book?”

“O dear, yes, ma’am! but I would not have done it, but I must do it. O, sister, you know—you do know—and you will pinch me so! Do, dear, good Mrs. Adair, tell her not to pinch me, for I know I shall scream!”

“This is a strange account! We must have a little conversation, my dear, in the evening. Correction, or advice, will have no effect with you, Miss Vincent. You are not aware that your conduct will be deeply impressed upon the mind of every young lady present: it will be remembered when you have forgotten the circumstance yourself. I shall expect to see you with your sister.”

Mrs. Adair looked round upon her pupils with a countenance of affection and concern. “Young ladies,” she added, “it behoves you to conduct yourselves in this house in a manner, that you may go forth into the world with modest confidence, arising from the pleasing reflection that you have fulfilled your duty in all things. Then, in future life, when you unexpectedly meet a school-companion and friend, how pleasant will be the greeting! And when I am old and infirm, should you recollect me, and call upon me as the friend of your youth, how gratifying will it be to my heart to think that I have been one means, in the hands of Providence, of giving to society discreet and amiable women.”

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