The prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the superintendent could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow’s instinct taught him that there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises⁠—a dozen would strain his capacity, without a doubt.

Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in her face⁠—but he wouldn’t look. She wondered; then she was just a grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went⁠—came again; she watched; a furtive glance told her worlds⁠—and then her heart broke, and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody. Tom most of all (she thought).