As to Mary Bateman, she looked at her father and her father looked at her, and then she held herself erect and said to herself, "I can but fail, and in any case I have done my best."
Just then, the murmurs of applause having died away, Sir John took up the first of the envelopes, opened it, unfolded the sheet of paper which lay within, and commenced to read.
The essay on Heroism which he first read happened to be written by Mary Bateman. It was practical, written in good English, the spelling all correct, and also contained some fairly well-chosen allusions to great heroes of history. The essay was thoughtful, and, although there was little originality in it, the guests listened with marked attention. The reading of the essay occupied exactly ten minutes, for Sir John read it slowly, pausing often to give full weight to the words which he read. He had a beautiful, mellow, perfectly-trained voice, and Mary's somewhat lame utterances could not have sounded to better advantage.
When he had finished the guests applauded, but without any intense enthusiasm. He laid the paper down before him on the table, and then proceeded to read the second essay. This had altogether a different note. The allusions to history were far less numerous, but the heart of the young writer made itself felt. It was the work of an immature mind, but here and there was a delicate touch which pointed to the possibility of future genius. Here and there was a graceful allusion which caused Sir John's own voice to falter, and above all things, through each word there breathed a lofty and noble spirit.
"Only the daughter of a soldier could have written those words," thought Sir John; "surely this must be Kitty's work, and surely no other essay could approach hers."
So he thought, and as he came to the last words his voice rang out clear and full, and when he ceased the applause was great, and Kitty's eyes shone, although she dared not meet anyone, for it was part of the code of honor amongst the three girls that the judges should not guess who had written each individual essay.
Then at last it came to be Florence's turn. Florence had copied Bertha Keys' paper, scarcely taking in its meaning. She had copied it in hot haste, with hot rage, defiance, determination in her heart. She scarcely knew herself what the words meant, she had not taken in their true significance. The essay was a little longer than the others, and began in quite a different way.