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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.

โ€œLet this serve as an incentive to renewed effort,โ€ 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.

โ€œYou seem mighty proud of your books, Frank Frost,โ€ said he with a sneer. โ€œWe 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.โ€

โ€œFor shame, John Haynes!โ€ exclaimed little Harvey Grover impetuously. โ€œYou only say that because you wanted the prize yourself, and you're disappointed.โ€

โ€œDisappointed!โ€ retorted John scornfully. โ€œI 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.โ€

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 chafedโ€”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.

โ€œWell, father, I didn't get the prize,โ€ commenced John, in a discontented voice.

โ€œSo much the worse for you,โ€ said his father coldly. โ€œYou might have gained it if you had made an effort.โ€

โ€œNo, I couldn't. Rathburn was sure to give it to his favorite.โ€

โ€œAnd who is his favorite?โ€ questioned Squire Haynes, not yet siding with his son.

โ€œFrank Frost, to be sure.โ€

โ€œFrank Frost!โ€ repeated the squire, rapidly wheeling round to his son's view of the matter. His dislike of the father was so great that it readily included the son. โ€œWhat makes you think he is the teacher's favorite?โ€

โ€œOh, Rathburn is always praising him for something or other. All the boys know Frank Frost is his pet. You won't catch him praising me, if I work ever so hard.โ€

John did not choose to mention that he had not yet tried this method of securing the teacher's approval.

โ€œTeachers should never have favorites,โ€ said the squire dogmatically. โ€œIt is highly detrimental to a teacher's influence, and subversive of the principles of justice. Have you got your essay with you, John?โ€

โ€œYes, sir.โ€

โ€œYou may sit down and read it to me, and if I think it deserving, I will take care that you sha'n't lose by the teacher's injustice.โ€

John readily obeyed. He hurried up to his chamber, and, opening his writing-desk, took out a sheet of foolscap, three sides of which were written over. This he brought down-stairs with him. He began to hope that he might get the boat after all.

The squire, in dressing-gown and slippers, sat in a comfortable armchair, while John in a consequential manner read his rejected essay. It was superficial and commonplace, and abundantly marked with pretension, but to the squire's warped judgment it seemed to have remarkable merit.

โ€œIt does you great credit, John,โ€ said he emphatically. โ€œI don't know what sort of an essay young Frost wrote, but I venture to say it was not as good. If he's anything like his father, he is an impertinent jackanapes.โ€

John pricked up his ears, and listened attentively.

โ€œHe grossly insulted me at the town meeting to-day, and I sha'n't soon forget it. It isn't for his interest to insult a man who has the power to annoy him that I possess.โ€

โ€œHaven't you got a mortgage on his farm?โ€

โ€œYes, and at a proper time I shall remind him of it. But to come back to your own affairs. What was the prize given to young Frost?โ€

โ€œA blue-and-gold copy of Whittier's Poems, in two volumes.โ€

โ€œPlain binding, I suppose.โ€

โ€œYes, sir.โ€

โ€œVery well. The next time I go to Boston, I will buy you the same thing bound in calf. I don't intend that you shall suffer by your teacher's injustice.โ€

โ€œIt wasn't so much the prize that I cared for,โ€ said John, who felt like making the most of his father's favorable mood, โ€œbut you know you promised me twenty-five dollars if I gained it.โ€

โ€œAnd as you have been defrauded of it, I will give you thirty instead,โ€ said the squire promptly.

John's eyes sparkled with delight. โ€œOh, thank you, sir!โ€ he said. โ€œI wouldn't change places with Frank Frost now for all his prize.โ€

โ€œI should think not, indeed,โ€ said the squire pompously. โ€œYour position as the son of a poor farmer wouldn't be quite so high as it is now.โ€

As he spoke he glanced complacently at the handsome furniture which surrounded him, the choice engravings which hung on the walls, and the full-length mirror in which his figure was reflected. โ€œTen years from now Frank Frost will be only a common laborer on his father's farmโ€”that is,โ€ he added significantly, โ€œif his father manages to keep it; while you, I hope, will be winning distinction at the bar.โ€

Father and son were in a congenial mood that evening, and a common hatred drew them more closely together than mutual affection had ever done. They were very much alikeโ€”both cold, calculating, and selfish. The squire was indeed ambitious for his son, but could hardly be said to love him, since he was incapable of feeling a hearty love for any one except himself.

As for John, it is to be feared that he regarded his father chiefly as one from whom he might expect future favors. His mother had been a good, though not a strong-minded woman, and her influence might have been of advantage to her son; but unhappily she had died when John was in his tenth year, and since then he had become too much like his father.





CHAPTER III. FRANK AT HOME

Mr. Frost's farm was situated about three-quarters of a mile from the village. It comprised

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