they consequently gave up the contest.  It was now six o’clock, and the first sound of seven o’clock by Captain Millar’s bell was to close the proceedings, and enable the reelers to proclaim the victor.  Only four names now remained to battle it out to the last; to wit, a country farmer’s daughter, named Betty Aikins, Dora M’Mahon, Hanna Cavanagh, and a servant-girl belonging to another neighbor, named Peggy Bailly.  This ruck, as they say on the turf, was pretty well up together, but all the rest nowhere.  And now, to continue the metaphor, as is the case at Goodwood or the Curragh, the whole interest was centered upon these four.  At the commencement of the last hour the state of the case was proclaimed as follows:  Betty Aikins, three dozen and eight cuts; Dora M’Mahon, three dozen and seven cuts; Hanna Cavanagh, three dozen and five cuts; and Peggy Bailly, three dozen and four cuts.  Every individual had now her own party anxious for her success, and amidst this hour of interest how many hearts beat with all hopes and fears that are incident even to the most circumscribed contest of human life.  Opposite Dora stood the youth whom we have already noticed, James Cavanagh, whose salvation seemed but a very trifling thing when compared or put into opposition with her success.  Be this as it may, the moment was a most exciting one even to those who felt no other interest than that which naturally arises from human competition.  And it was unquestionably a beautiful thing to witness this particular contest between, four youthful and industrious young women.  Dora’s otherwise pale and placid features were now mantling, and her beautiful dark eyes flashing, under the proud and ardent spirit of ambition, for such in fact was the principle which now urged and animated the contest.  When nearly half an hour had passed, Kathleen came behind her, and stooping down, whispered, “Dora, don’t turn your wheel so quickly:  you move the, foot-board too fast—­don’t twist the thread too much, and you’ll let down more.”

Dora smiled and looked up to her with a grateful and flashing eye.  “Thank you, Kathleen,” she replied, nodding, “I’ll take your advice.”  The state of the contest was then proclaimed:—­Betty Aikins—­three dozen and ten cuts; Dora M’Mahon—­three dozen and ten cuts; Hanna Cavanagh —­three dozen, six cuts and a half; Peggy Bailly—­three dozen, five and a half.

On hearing this, Betty Aikin’s cheek became scarlet, and as it is useless to disguise the fact, several flashing glances that partook more of a Penthesilean fire than the fearful spirit which usually characterizes the industrious pursuits of Minerva, were shot at generous Dora, who sustained her portion of the contest with singular spirit and temper.

“You may as well give it up, Dora M’Mahon,” exclaimed Betty; “there never was one of your blood could open against an Aikins—­the stuff is not in you to beat me.”

“A very little time will soon tell that,” replied Dora; “but indeed, Betty, if I am doin’ my best to win the kemp, I hope it’s not in a bad or unfriendly spirit, but in one of fair play and good humor.”