Those selected to prepare compositions read them before the whole school.  My friend’s was received with great laughter and applause.  The one I read not only fell flat, but nearly prostrated me also.  As soon as I had finished, one of the young ladies left the room and, returning in a few moments with her composition book, laid it before the teacher who presided that day, showing her the same composition I had just read.  I was called up at once to explain, but was so amazed and confounded that I could not speak, and I looked the personification of guilt.  I saw at a glance the contemptible position I occupied and felt as if the last day had come, that I stood before the judgment seat and had heard the awful sentence pronounced, “Depart ye wicked into everlasting punishment.”  How I escaped from that scene to my own room I do not know.  I was too wretched for tears.  I sat alone for a long time when a gentle tap announced my betrayer.  She put her arms around me affectionately and kissed me again and again.

“Oh!” she said, “you are a hero.  You went through that trying ordeal like a soldier.  I was so afraid, when you were pressed with questions, that the whole truth would come out and I be forced to stand in your place.  I am not so brave as you; I could not endure it.  Now that you are through it and know how bitter a trial it is, promise that you will save me from the same experience.  You are so good and noble I know you will not betray me.”

In this supreme moment of misery and disgrace, her loving words and warm embrace were like balm to my bruised soul and I readily promised all she asked.  The girl had penetrated the weak point in my character.  I loved flattery.  Through that means she got my composition in the first place, pledged me to silence in the second place, and so confused my moral perceptions that I really thought it praiseworthy to shelter her from what I had suffered.  However, without betrayal on my part, the trick came to light through the very means she took to make concealment sure.  After compositions were read they were handed over to a certain teacher for criticism.  Miss ——­ had copied mine, and returned to me the original.  I had not copied hers, so the two were in the same handwriting—­one with my name outside and one with Miss ——­’s.

As I stood well in school, both for scholarship and behavior, my sudden fall from grace occasioned no end of discussion.  So, as soon as the teacher discovered the two compositions in Miss ——­’s writing, she came to me to inquire how I got one of Miss ——­’s compositions.  She said, “Where is yours that you wrote for that day?”

Taking it from my portfolio, I replied, “Here it is.”

She then asked, “Did you copy it from her book?”

I replied, “No; I wrote it myself.”

“Then why did you not read your own?”

“We agreed to change,” said I.

“Did you know that Miss ——­ had copied that from the book of another young lady?”