“After careful consideration,” continued the teacher, “I have decided that the prize should be adjudged to an essay entitled ’The Duties of Boys on the Present National Crisis,’ written by Frank Frost.”

There was a general clapping of hands at this announcement.  Frank was a general favorite, and even his disappointed rivals felt a degree of satisfaction in feeling that he had obtained the prize.

There was one exception, however.  John Haynes turned pale, and then red, with anger and vexation.  He scowled darkly while the rest of the boys were applauding, and persuaded himself that he was the victim of a great piece of injustice.

Frank’s face flushed with pleasure, and his eyes danced with delight.  He had made a great effort to succeed, and he knew that at home they would be very happy to hear that the prize had been awarded to him.

“Frank Frost will come forward,” said Mr. Rathburn.

Frank left his seat, and advanced modestly.  Mr. Rathburn placed in his hand a neat edition of Whittier’s Poem’s in blue and gold.

“Let this serve as an incentive to renewed effort,” he said.

The second prize was awarded to one of the girls.  As she has no part in our story, we need say nothing more on this point.

At recess, Frank’s desk was surrounded by his schoolmates, who were desirous of examining the prize volumes.  All expressed hearty good-will, congratulating him on his success, with the exception of John Haynes.

“You seem mighty proud of your books, Frank Frost,” said he with a sneer.  “We all know that you’re old Rathburn’s favorite.  It didn’t make much difference what you wrote, as long as you were sure of the prize.”

“For shame, John Haynes!” exclaimed little Harvey Grover impetuously.  “You only say that because you wanted the prize yourself, and you’re disappointed.”

“Disappointed!” retorted John scornfully.  “I don’t want any of old Rathburn’s sixpenny books.  I can buy as many as I please.  If he’d given ’em to me, I should have asked him to keep ’em for those who needed ’em more.”

Frank was justly indignant at the unfriendly course which John chose to pursue, but feeling that it proceeded from disappointed rivalry, he wisely said nothing to increase his exasperation.  He put the two books carefully away in his desk, and settled himself quietly to his day’s lessons.

It was not until evening that John and his father met.  Both had been chafed—­the first by his disappointment, the second by the failure of his effort to prevent the town’s voting bounties to volunteers.  In particular he was incensed with Mr. Frost, for his imputation of interested motives, although it was only in return for a similar imputation brought against himself.

“Well, father, I didn’t get the prize,” commenced John, in a discontented voice.

“So much the worse for you,” said his father coldly.  “You might have gained it if you had made an effort.”