Kitty sprang to her feet and went over to the window. "This makes me restless," she said; "I didn't mean to express all my feelings; I am very sorry for you, Mary, and for you, Florence, but, I mean to get the Scholarship."

"You have not yet seen the thing from my point of view," said Florence. "Perhaps in reality this means more to me than even to you, Kitty, for I—I in reality am horribly poor. I know, Kitty, that you are poor too—I know perfectly well that your father is poor for his position; but whatever happens, you are a lady, Kitty, and your father is a gentleman, and at the end of three years, whether you win the Scholarship or not, you will go out to him and lead the life of a lady. I don't suppose, when all is said and done, that it will make any difference in his affection whether you can speak French and read German or not, and I am certain he won't kiss you less often because you do not play charmingly and because you do not sing divinely. But I—if I lose the Scholarship I lose all—yes, I lose all," said Florence, rising to her feet and standing before the other two girls with a solemn and yet frightened look on her face. "For I shall sink in every sense of the word; I shall no longer be a lady, I shall go as pupil teacher to a common, rough sort of school, and my mother, my dear mother, will suffer, and I shall suffer, and all the good things of life will be taken from me. So it is more to me than it is to you, Kitty Sharston; and as to you, Mary Bateman, you are out of count altogether, for why should you go to that new-fangled college and be turned into a man when you are born a woman? No, no; I mean to get this Scholarship, for it means not only all my future, but mother's future too. It is more to me than to either of you."

Florence swept up her papers, thrust them into her desk, and abruptly left the room, slamming the door after her.

Kitty looked at Mary, and Kitty's eyes were full of tears. "It is quite dreadful," she said; "how she does feel it! I never knew Florence was that intense sort of girl, and it does seem a great deal to her. What is to be done, Mary? Are we to give it up?"

"Give it up?" said Mary, with a laugh; "not quite. Kitty, for goodness' sake, don't allow Florence's words to trouble you. You have got to fight with all your might and main. You will fight honorably and so will I, and if you mean to give it up there will be the greater chance for me, but of course you won't give it up."

"No, I shan't give it up," said Kitty, "but all the same, Florence's words pain me."

At that moment a clear ringing little voice was heard in the passage outside, the door of the oak parlor was burst open, and Dolly Fairfax rushed in. Dolly's eyes were shining and her cheeks were crimson. "Here are two letters," she said, "both for you, Kitty Sharston; it isn't fair that you should get all the letters."

"Come and sit on my knee while I read them," said Kitty, stretching out her arms to Dolly.

Dolly sprang into Kitty's lap, twined her soft arms round her neck, and laughed into her face.

"I do so love you, Kitty," she said; "I do so hope you will win the Scholarship. I don't want you to get it, ugly Mary, and I don't want nasty Florence to get it; but I want you, sweet, dear, darling Kitty, to get it. You shall—you shall!"

"You are a very rude little thing, but I don't mind," said Mary, laughing good-humoredly. "I know I am plain, and I don't care a bit; I'll win the Scholarship if I never win anything else, so you may as well make up your mind, Kitty Sharston."

But Kitty never heard her, she was deep in her father's letter. Yes, it had come, and it was a long letter closely written on foreign paper, and Kitty took a very long time reading it, so long that little Dolly slipped off her lap and wandered restlessly to the window and stood there gazing out into the court, and then back again into the softly-shaded room, with the slanting rays of the afternoon sun making bars of light across the oak.

At last Kitty finished; she heaved a long sigh and looked up. "I had forgotten you were here, Mary," she said, "and as to you, Dolly—but there, it is beautiful, good news. Father has arrived and has begun his work, and he says he has every chance of going up into the hills about the time that I shall have finished my education here. Oh, it is such a relief to read his letter. If you are very good indeed, Mary, and if you are very good, Dolly, you shall both hear some of my letter—not the private part, of course—but the public part, which speaks about father's wonderful interesting travels, and his sort of public life, the life he gives to his country. Oh, dear! I never saw anyone grander than dear, dear father!"

"You have said that very often," said Dolly; "I have got a father too, but I don't think he is specially grand. I suppose it was because your father was a hero before Sebastopol. I shall never forget about Sebastopol now and the trenches since you told me that wonderful story about your father and Sir John Wallis, and the night they were both nearly frozen," said Dolly Fairfax. "I suppose that is why you love your father so much."

"No, it isn't," answered Kitty stoutly; "I love him just because he is my father and because, because, oh! I don't know why—I love him because I do."

"Well, read your other letter now; two have come—read the other."

Kitty picked up the other letter and glanced at it. "This is a private letter; it has come by hand," she said. "Oh, of course, it is from Sir John Wallis. I wonder what he has got to say to me."

Kitty opened the letter and read the following words:

"MY DEAR KITTY: I want you and Miss Florence Aylmer and Miss Mary Bateman to spend to-morrow with me at Cherry Court Park. Mrs. Clavering will accompany you, and I have written to her also on the subject. My dear child, my reason in having you three girls is simply that I want to study your characters. I say this quite frankly, and you may tell both your companions that such is my intention in having you to spend a long day with me. I will do all I can to make you happy, and I think it but fair to put all three of you on your guard, for please understand that the Scholarship is given, not only for scholarly attainments and correct deportment, but also for those lofty traits of character which are a greater possession to any woman than either ladylike manners or great accomplishments. Pray do not be anything but your natural selves to-morrow, for I shall never allude to this matter again. From now until the date when the Scholarship is to be decided, I will expect you three to spend one day a week at Cherry Court Park.

"Your affectionate friend, "JOHN WALLIS."



CHAPTER XIV.

AT THE PARK.

The news that the lucky three were to spend a whole day at Cherry Court Park caused great excitement amongst the other girls of the school.

"It's nothing short of delightful," said Alice Cunningham to her sister; "I only wish I had such a chance."

"Well, you have not, so there's no use in fretting about it," replied Mabel. "They certainly are having a good time, but who will win? I vote for Florence."

"And I for Kitty," said Alice; "who has a chance beside Kitty? She is the most brilliant of the three girls, and such a favorite with Sir John."

"But for that very reason she may have less chance of winning, because Sir John is a wonderfully just man. Did you ever see anyone so terribly in earnest as Florence? Her eyes have quite a strained look at times, and she does not eat half as much as she did; then she gets such long, long letters from that wonderful aunt of hers. She did not get those letters at all last term, and her dress is so smart, and she has such heaps of pocket-money; there is a great change in Florence. Sometimes I feel that I want her to win, but at other times all my sympathies are for Kitty."

"No one seems to think of poor Mary Bateman," said Edith King, in a thoughtful voice, "and yet in reality she is one of the nicest girls in the school, and if she wins the Scholarship, for she has been telling me all about it, she is to go to Girton."

"Where in the name of wonder is Girton?" asked Alice Cunningham.

"Oh, it is a College for Women which has been opened near Cambridge."

"Then if I thought I had to go to a College for Women I should be rather sorry to win the Scholarship," said Mabel Cunningham; "but there, don't let us talk of it any more. We are to have something of a half-holiday to-day, for Mrs. Clavering is to take the three lucky ones to Cherry Court Park."

Florence dressed herself with great care for this expedition. Kitty had shown her Sir John's letter, and she had felt a queer tingling pain at her heart as she read it; but then a sort of defiance, which was growing more and more in her character day by day, arose to her aid, and she determined that she would not give Sir John one loophole to find out anything amiss in her conduct.

"We are going to be spied upon, and it is perfectly horrid," she said, under her breath, "but never mind, I am determined to stand the test."

The day happened to be a lovely one, and Florence looked carefully through her wardrobe. She finally decided to put on the light summer silk which Mrs. Aylmer had provided for her. She looked very nice in that silk, almost pretty, and as all its accompaniments were perfect, the lace ruffles round the neck, the lace hanging over her hands, the trimmings of every sort just as they ought to be, the hat which she was to wear with the dress, specially chosen by the London dressmaker for the purpose, no one could look more elegant than Florence did as she stood in the hall of Cherry Court School just before she started for Cherry Court Park.

Kitty, on the other hand, had thought very little about her dress; she had no fine clothes to wear, so she just put on a clean white muslin dress, tied a colored sash round her waist, put her sailor hat on her head, and ran downstairs, a light in her eyes and a pleased smile round her lips.

"I cannot be anything great," she whispered to her heart, as she glanced for a moment at Florence, who looked something like a fashion plate as she stood in the hall, "but at least I'll be myself. I'll try—yes, I'll try very hard to forget all about the Scholarship to-day. I want to make dear Sir John happy, and I hope, I do hope he'll tell me something about father and the time they spent together outside Sebastopol."

Mary Bateman was the downright sort of girl who never under any circumstances could trouble herself about dress. She wore her best Sunday frock, that was all, and her best hat, and her gloves were a little darned at the tips, but she looked like a lady and was not the least self-conscious.

Sir John's own carriage was to arrive to fetch the ladies to the Park. Cherry Court Park was between two and three miles away from Cherry Court School, and Mrs. Clavering and her three pupils greatly enjoyed their drive to the splendid old place. Kitty had been there twice before, once with her father and once without him, but neither Florence nor Mary had ever seen the interior of the Park. Mary's exclamations of rapture as they drove under the overhanging trees and down the long winding avenue were frequent and enthusiastic. Florence, however, scarcely spoke; she was not a girl to be much impressed by external beauty; she was thinking all the time how she could keep the best and most amiable part of her character to the fore. What did Sir John mean to do? What sort of test was he going to apply to her? She felt that she must be armed on every point.

"My dear girls," said Mrs. Clavering, just as they were approaching the house, "I see you are all a little nervous, thinking that a somewhat strange test will be applied to you to-day, but I assure you, my dears, that nothing of the kind is intended, and I beg of you, as you wish to impress your kind host favorably, to be at any cost natural and true to yourselves. Florence dear, I would specially beg of you to remember my words. Don't set your heart too much on any earthly good thing, my child, for often those who lose gain more than those who win."

But Florence shook off the gentle hand; she could scarcely stand Mrs. Clavering's words just then, and avoided meeting her eyes.

Sir John stood on the steps of his magnificent old house to welcome his guests. As the carriage drew up beside the porch he came down and extended his hand to each.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, "thrice welcome! What a lovely day we have! Mrs. Clavering, I hope to have the privilege of taking you round my gardens, which are just in their autumn prime, and as to you three girls, will you amuse yourselves exactly as you please until luncheon-time?"

"Thank you so much," said Mary, in her blunt voice. She could never act a part to save her life. "That is just what I should like best to do," she added, smiling and dimpling. She had a jolly little face, somewhat tanned with the sun, two round good-humored brown eyes, and a wide mouth. Her teeth were white, however, and her smile pleasant.

"Kitty, my dear," said Sir John, turning to Kitty Sharston, "you have been here before and I depute to you the task of doing the honors. Take the girls wherever you please. If, for instance," added Sir John, "you three would like to have a row on the lake there is the boat all moored and ready. Kitty, you know how to handle an oar?"

"Rather," said Kitty; "I have rowed more or less since I could walk."

"Well, then, that is all right; but if you require any assistance you have but to call one of the gardeners, there are sure to be plenty about. Now off you go, all three; forget the old man, and enjoy yourselves as happy girls should."

As Sir John spoke he gave his arm with old-fashioned courtesy to Mrs. Clavering, and the two turned away.

"Now, is not this just like dear Sir John?" said Kitty, beginning to dance about. "Come, girls, I'll have greatest pleasure in taking you about."

"I am surprised to hear that you know all about Cherry Court Park," said Florence, in a somewhat cross voice, but then she remembered herself and made an effort to smile.

"I have been here twice before," said Kitty. "What do you say to having a row? Mary, what do you wish?"

"If you will allow me to do exactly what I like," said Mary, "I don't want anyone to guide me; I want to wander here, there, and everywhere just at my own sweet will. I have brought my little sketch-book with me, and mean to sketch some of these splendid old trees. Mother is so fond of outdoor sketches, and I could seldom indulge her with anything so fine as I could get in an old place like this. Just go off where you please, girls, and don't bother about me."

Off ran Mary on her sturdy legs, and Florence looked after her with a laugh.

"Poor Mary," she said, in a contemptuous tone.

"Why poor?" asked Kitty; "I think Mary is such a downright, jolly, sensible sort of girl."

"Oh, very downright and sensible," said Florence. "Kitty, do you really want to go in the boat?"

"Not if you don't want to go," said Kitty, looking somewhat anxiously at her companion.

"But I see you do; I notice the expression in your eyes."

"Well, it's very sweet in the boat, it does soothe one so; the last time I was there it was with father; but never mind, I won't go if you would rather not. Shall we sit under this tree and talk?"

"Yes, let us," said Florence. "I feel very cross to-day; I don't exactly know what is the matter."

"I wish you would tell me some of your troubles, Flo."

"How can I; you are my enemy."

"Nonsense, nonsense! how can you regard me in that light? You make me quite miserable when you talk as you do."

"And I meant to be amiable to-day," said poor Florence, "but somehow everything grates. It is Aunt Susan. Kitty, you cannot understand my position. I have to be civil and pleasant to one whom I—but there, don't talk of it."

"I don't quite understand; I wonder if you feel for your Aunt Susan as I feel for Helen Dartmoor."

"The lady you are to live with if you lose the Scholarship?"

"Yes," replied Kitty, sadly.

"You had better make up your mind to like her then, Kitty, for you will have to live with her."

"Why do you say that?"

"Only that I mean to get the Scholarship, and I think my will is stronger than yours."

"It is not a case of will," said Kitty, trembling a little as she spoke.

"Isn't it? I rather fancy it is. But there, we are to be amiable to-day, are we not? Look at Mary sitting under that tree and sketching as if her life depended on it. I wonder if she is really doing it hoping to please Sir John."

"Not a bit of it; that would not be Mary's way. All the same," added Kitty, in a thoughtful voice, "he will be delighted. Mary's sketches are very spirited, and Sir John loves people to appreciate his place. He will ask you what you think about it at lunch, Florry; you had really better let me show you round a bit."

"If that is the case, certainly," said Florence. She got up, and she and Kitty began to wander through the different grounds. They had nearly completed their peregrinations, having wandered over many acres of cultivated and lovely land, when the luncheon bell summoned them back to the house.

"Oh, I am so hungry," said Kitty, "and Sir John has the most splendid luncheons. I wonder where Mary is."

The girls looked to right and left, but could not see a sign of Mary Bateman anywhere. They approached the house. A great big colley came up, wagging his tail slowly, and thrust his nose into Kitty's hand.

"Dear old Watch, how sweet you are!" said the girl.

She bent down, flinging her arms round the colley's neck, and pressed a kiss on a white star on his forehead.

Just then Sir John's voice was heard calling them. "Hey, little women," he said, "I hope you had a pleasant time and enjoyed yourselves as much as I meant you to."

"Yes, I have enjoyed myself immensely," said Kitty. "Haven't you, too, Florry!"

"Yes," replied Florence, "I like the place and the gardens."

In spite of herself she spoke in a stiff, constrained voice; she felt that Sir John's eye was upon her. She wondered how Kitty could forget all that hung upon this visit.

Kitty's face was quite careless and happy, there was a wild-rose bloom on her cheeks which did not visit them very often, and her large pathetic grey eyes looked more beautiful than ever.

Mrs. Clavering now came forward.

"Come upstairs, dears," she said, "and wash your hands before lunch."

The girls followed their mistress up the great central hall and ascended the low oak stairs. They entered a bedroom magnificently furnished.

"What a great delightful place this is!" said Florence; "fancy any one person owning it!" She heaved a quick sigh as she spoke.

"It is a great responsibility having a place like this and so much money," answered Mrs. Clavering. "Florence dear, I don't want to preach—in fact, there is nothing I hate more, but I should like to say one thing. Happiness in the world is far more evenly divided than anyone has the least idea of. Riches are eagerly coveted by those who are poor, but the rich have immense responsibilities. Remember, my child, that we all have to give an account with regard to our individual talents some day."

Florence stirred restlessly and approached the window.

"I wonder where Mary is," she said, and just as she uttered the words the silver gong in the hall sounded, and the three ladies hurried down to luncheon.

Still no sign of Mary, but just as they were all wondering with regard to her absence, the door was opened, and a girl, with a smudge on her face and her hat pushed crooked on her head, entered the room. She held her little sketch-book and came eagerly forward.

"Oh, I am sorry I am late," she said; "I hope I kept no one waiting. I forgot all about it—it was that wonderful old oak-tree."

"What, the grenadier?" said Sir John, with a smile. "Have you been sketching it, Miss Bateman?"

"I have been trying to, but it is awfully difficult."

"You must let me see your attempt."

He went up to Mary, took her sketch-book, opened it, and a smile of pleasure flitted across his face as he saw the very clever and spirited sketch which the girl had made.

"Ah!" he said, "I am delighted you like this sort of thing. Would you like to take many views from my grounds?"

"Certainly—better than anything in the world almost," said Mary.

"Well, let me offer you my arm now into lunch. Ladies, will you follow us, please?"

Florence's brow contracted with a frown. Mrs. Clavering took Kitty's hand, motioned to Florence to follow, and they went into the dining-room.

During the rest of the meal Sir John devoted himself to Mary; her frank, commonplace face, her downright manners, her total absence of all self-consciousness pleased him. He found her a truly intelligent girl, and discovered in talking over her father that they knew some mutual friends.

To Kitty he hardly spoke, although he glanced at her once or twice. Florence seemed not to receive the most remote share of his attention.

"And yet," thought Florence to herself, "I am the only girl present properly dressed for the occasion. Surely Sir John, a thorough gentleman as he is, must notice that fact. I wonder what it can mean. Why does he devote himself to Mary? Am I wrong from first to last? Do girls who are real ladies think little or nothing about their dress? Would Sir John have been more inclined to be pleasant to me if Aunt Susan had never interfered?"

As these thoughts came to the restless and unhappy girl's mind she only played with her food, became distrait and inattentive, and had to be spoken to once or twice by Mrs. Clavering in order to recall her wandering attention.

Just as the meal came to an end Sir John turned to Kitty, then glanced at Florence, laid his hand emphatically on the table, touched Mary on her sleeve in order to ensure her attention, and spoke.

"Now," he said, "I am just going to say a word before we go for our afternoon expedition."

"Afternoon expedition! Are we going to have anything very jolly this afternoon?" said Kitty, her eyes sparkling.

"I hope so, my little girl; I have ordered horses for us all. I understand that you can all ride, and I thought we could ride to Culner's Heath, where we may enjoy a gipsy tea."

Even Florence almost forgot herself at this announcement. Could she ride in her silk dress? Had Sir John thought of habits? It seemed that Sir John had thought of everything.

"You will find habits in your bedroom, ladies," he said, "and you can choose your horses when they come up to the door—but one word first."

Mrs. Clavering, who had half risen from the table, now paused, arrested by an expression on her host's face.

"Yes," she said.

Sir John glanced at her and then smiled.

"I am about to speak to the girls," he said, "on the matter which we discussed this morning, my dear madam."

Mrs. Clavering smiled, and bowed her head.

"You know, my dear girls," continued Sir John, turning and addressing the three, "that the Scholarship competition will take place in a little over a month from now. Now, I mean that occasion to be a very grand occasion, I mean it to be strongly impressed upon the mind of every girl in Cherry Court School, and no pleasure which I can devise shall be omitted on the auspicious day. The happy winner of the Scholarship shall be truly crowned with laurels, bonfires are to be lighted in her honor, and the whole country-side is to be invited to attend the great function, which I propose to take place, not at the school, but in this house. I intend to invite the entire school to be my guests on the great day. They shall all come early in the morning and stay at this house until the following day. I am already making preparations for the delightful time. And now, there is one thing I want to ask. You three girls who are called by your companions the lucky three have it in your power to invite each one guest to witness your triumph. You are to name the guest to me, and I myself will send the invitation in proper style. I know who Kitty would like to have with her, but, failing that person, Kitty, is there anyone else whom you may think it perhaps not your pleasure, but your duty, to ask to be present?"

"There is only Helen Dartmoor," said Kitty, in a low voice, the crimson flush rising to her face, "and though it will be very unpleasant to have Helen here, if you think it right, Sir John, I—don't mind."

"That is very valiantly answered, Kitty, and I wish I might say at once that you need not have anyone present whom you do not wish to have present, but I rather think it would please your father if Miss Dartmoor received a proper invitation. I will ask her therefore, my dear child, if there is no one else you would rather have?"

"There is no one else that I can have, and I don't suppose I need see a great deal of Helen."

"Certainly not; she will only arrive at the Park the day before the Scholarship competition takes place."

"Then I suppose she must come," said Kitty.

"It would be a kindness," said Sir John, slowly. "I happen to know Miss Dartmoor; she has few pleasures."

Kitty nodded. Sir John turned to Mary.

"Now, then, Miss Bateman, whom am I to ask on your account?"

"Oh, father, father! How delightful! how he will enjoy it!" said Mary, her eyes sparkling, her face beaming. "He will so thoroughly appreciate it all, and it will be so splendid of you, Sir John."

"How very free and easy Mary Bateman is," thought Florry to herself.

Sir John smiled, took down Mr. Bateman's address, and promised that the invitation should reach him in good time.

"I wonder if he will come. How he would love it!" thought Mary.

Sir John glanced at her pleased face with marked approval.

"And now, Miss Aylmer," he said, turning to Florence, "who will you have present—the one you love best: your mother, for instance?"

Now, Florence had sent one wild throbbing thought to the little Mummy the moment Sir John had spoken of his plan. How the Mummy would enjoy it, how she would revel in the good food and the lovely house! What a red-letter day it would be to her all her life, for all the rest of her years! How Sukey and Ann Pratt and the neighbors down at Dawlish would respect her for evermore! And doubtless the Mummy's dress might be managed, and—but what about Aunt Susan? Would Aunt Susan ever forgive her? She dared not run the risk of her displeasure; too much depended on keeping her in a good humor.

"I should like my aunt to come," she said, in a steady voice; "she is very kind to me and specially interested in the result of the Scholarship."

"I know; I have heard from Mrs. Aylmer," said Sir John, in a pleasant tone; "if you would really prefer her to have the invitation to your mother, it shall be as you wish, Miss Aylmer."

"I think it would be right," said Florence. Her heart gave a heavy throb, then seemed to stand still.

Sir John gave her one keen glance, and took down Mrs. Aylmer's address in his pocket-book.

"I happen to know your aunt, Miss Aylmer, and shall be pleased to extend hospitality to her on the auspicious event."



CHAPTER XV.

THE PUPIL TEACHER.

At the beginning of the autumn term there happened to come to the school a girl of the name of Bertha Keys. She was between seventeen and eighteen years of age, and came to Cherry Court School in the capacity of pupil teacher. She was not a pleasant girl to look at, and had Mrs. Clavering seen her before she engaged her she might have hesitated to bring her into the midst of her young scholars.

But Bertha was clever and outwardly amiable. She performed her duties with exactitude and despatch. She kept the younger girls in order, and was apparently very unselfish and willing to oblige, and Mrs. Clavering, after the first week or fortnight, ceased to feel apprehensive when she looked at her face. For Bertha's face bore the impress of a somewhat crooked mind. The small light blue eyes had a sly gleam in them; they were incapable of looking one straight in the face. Bertha had the fair complexion which often accompanies a certain shade of red hair, and but for the expression in her eyes she might have been a fairly good-looking girl. She had an upright trim figure, and dressed herself neatly. Those watchful eyes, however, marred the entire face. They were as clever as they were sharp and knowing. Nothing escaped her mental vision. She could read character like a book.

Now, Bertha Keys was very poor. In her whole future life she had nothing to look forward to except what she could win by her own individual exertions. Bertha's apparent lot in life was to be a teacher—her own wish was to cringe to those in power, to obtain a footing amongst those who were likely to aid her, and she had not been a week in the school before she made up her mind that of all the girls at Cherry Court School no one was so likely to help her in the future as Florence Aylmer. If Florence won the Scholarship and became the adopted heiress of a rich aunt, the opportunities in favor of Bertha's advancement would be enormous. On the other hand, if Mary Bateman won the Scholarship nothing at all would happen to further Bertha's interest. The same might be said with regard to Kitty Sharston. Bertha, therefore, who was extremely sharp herself and thoroughly well educated, determined that she would not leave a stone unturned to help Florence with regard to the Scholarship. Nothing was said on the subject between Florence and Bertha for several weeks. Bertha never failed, however, to propitiate Florence, helping her when she could with her work, doing a thousand little nameless kindnesses for her, and giving her, when the opportunity offered, many sympathetic glances. She managed to glean from the younger girls something of Florence's history, noted when those long letters came from Mrs. Aylmer the great, observed how depressed Florence was when she received letters from Dawlish, noted her feverish anxiety to deport herself well, to lead a life of excellent conduct, and, above all things, to struggle through the weighty themes which had to be mastered in order to win the great Scholarship.

One day about three weeks before the Scholarship examination was to take place, and a week after the events related in the last chapter, Florence was engaged in reading a long letter from her Aunt Susan. Mrs. Aylmer had received her invitation to Cherry Court Park, and had written to her niece on the subject.

"I shall arrive the day before the Scholarship examination," she wrote, "and, my dear girl, will bring with me a dress suitable for you to wear on the great day. I have consulted my dressmaker, Madame le Rouge, and she suggests white bengaline, simply made and suitable to a young girl. Yours, my dear Florence, will be the simplest dress in the school, and yet far and away the most elegant, for what we have to aim at now is the extreme simplicity of graceful youth. Nothing costs more than simplicity, my dear girl, as you will discover presently. But more of that when we meet. One last word, dear Florence; of course, you will not fail. Were I to see you dishonored, I should never hold up my head again, and, as far as you are concerned, would wash my hands of you forever."

Florence's lips trembled as she read the last words. An unopened letter from her mother lay on her lap. She flung down Mrs. Aylmer's letter and took up her mother's. She had just broken the envelope and was preparing to read it when Dolly Fairfax rushed into the room.

"Florence, do come out for one moment," she said; "Edith wants to tell you something."

"Oh, I can't go; I am busy," said Florence, restlessly.

"I wish you would come; it is something important; it is something about to-night. Do come; Edith would come to you, but she is looking after two or three of the little ones in the cherry orchard. You can go back in five minutes."

Uttering a hasty exclamation, and thrusting her mother's letter into her pocket, Florence started up and followed Dolly. She forgot all about her aunt's letter, which had fallen to the floor.

She had scarcely left the room before Bertha Keys stepped forward, picked up the letter, read it from end to end, and having done so laid it back on Florence's desk. Florence returned presently, sat down by her desk, and, taking her mother's letter out of her pocket, read it.

The little Mummy was in trouble; she had contracted a bad cold, the cold had resolved into a sharp attack of pleurisy. She was now on the road to recovery, and Florence need not be the least bit anxious about her, but she had run up a heavy doctor's bill, and had not the slightest idea how she was to meet it.

"I do wish, Florence, my darling," she said, "you could manage to let me have some of that pocket-money which your Aunt Susan sends you every week. If I could give the doctor even one pound I know he would wait for the rest, and then there is the chemist, too, and I have to be a little careful now that the weather is getting chilly, and must have fires in the evening, and so on. Oh, I am quite well, my precious pet, but a little help from you would see me round this tight corner."

Florence ground her teeth and her eyes flashed. The little Mummy ill, ill almost to the point of danger. Better now, it is true, but wanting those comforts which Aunt Susan had in such abundance.

"I cannot stand it," thought the girl. "What is to be done? By fair means or foul, I must get that Scholarship. Oh, I fear nothing. I believe I am sure to win if only I can beat Kitty on her own ground. Her ground is history and literature. There is to be a horrible theme written, and a great deal depends on how that theme is handled, and I am no good at all at composition. I have no power with regard to picturesque writing. I cannot see pictures like Kitty can. I believe Sir John has set that theme on purpose, in order to give Kitty an advantage; if so, it is horribly unfair of him."

Florence muttered these words to herself; then she glanced again at her mother's letter. She put her hand into her pocket and pulled out her purse. That purse, owing to Aunt Susan's bounty, contained over two pounds. Florence resolved to send that two pounds to her mother immediately. She began to write, but had scarcely finished her letter before Bertha Keys, equipped for a walk, briskly entered the room.

"I am going to Hilchester," she said; "have you any message, Florence?"

"Oh, I should be so much obliged if you would post a letter for me," said Florence.

"I will, with pleasure," replied Bertha.

"Can you wait five minutes? I shall not be longer than that writing it."

"Yes," replied Bertha. She went and stood by the low window-ledge, and Florence bent over her sheet of paper. She wrote rapidly, a burning flush coming into each cheek.

"Oh, darling little Mummy," she wrote, "I am sending you all the money I have. Yes, you may be quite certain I will win the Scholarship by fair means or foul. I feel nearly mad when I think of your sufferings; but never mind, once the Scholarship is won and I am declared to the world to be the Cherry Court Scholarship girl, once I am crowned queen on the great day of the Scholarship competition, I shall, I perceive well, be able to do exactly what I like with Aunt Susan, and then be sure you shall not want. Please, dear Mummy, pay what is necessary of this to the doctor, and get yourself what you can in the way of nourishment. I am most, most anxious about you, my own darling little Mummy, and I vow at any risk that you shall have my ten shillings a week for the present. What do the girls at the school matter? What matters anything if you are ill? Oh, do take care of yourself for my sake, Mummy."

Bertha Keys moved restlessly, and Florence, having addressed the envelope and stamped it, went up to her.

"Look here," she said, eagerly, "I wish I could come with you, but I can't, for I have my lessons to prepare, and this is the night of the conversazione. If you would be truly kind, would you do something for me!"

"Of course I'll be truly kind," said Bertha; "I take a great interest in you, Miss Aylmer, but who would not who knew you well?"

"What do you mean by that?" said Florence, who was keenly susceptible to flattery.

Bertha gave a little contemptuous sniff.

"You are the only girl in the school whose friendship is worth cultivating," she said; "you have go and courage, and some day you will be very handsome; yes, I feel sure of it. I wish you would let me help you to form your figure; you might draw your stays a little tighter, and do your hair differently. I wish you would let me be your friend. You are the only girl in the school whose friendship I care twopence about."

"What!" said Florence, trembling slightly and looking full into Bertha's face, "do you think more about me than you do of Kitty Sharston?"

The pupil teacher gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.

"Miss Sharston," she said; "oh, a nice little girl, very nice and very amiable, but, my dear Miss Aylmer, you and she are not in the same running at all. But there, I must be quick; I have to return home in time to undress the little ones. Oh, what a lot is mine, and I pine for so much, so much that I can never have."

"Poor girl, I am sorry for you," said Florence; "but there, I won't keep you any longer. See, this is what I want you to do. Will you convert these two sovereigns into a postoffice order, and will you put it into this letter, and then fasten the envelope and put the whole into the post?"

Florence gave some more directions with regard to the postoffice order. In 1870 postal orders, much simpler things, were unknown. Bertha Keys promised, took in all the directions quickly, and started off on her mission.

She walked down the road as briskly as possible. The distance between Hilchester and Cherry Court School was between two and three miles. The road was a lonely one. Bertha presently crossed a stile and found herself in a shady lane. When she reached this point she looked behind her and in front of her; there was no one in sight. Then taking Florence's letter out of her pocket, she slowly and quietly read the contents. Having read them, a smile flitted across her face.

"Little Mummy," she said aloud, "you must do without your two pounds. Bertha Keys wants this money a great deal more urgently than you do. Florence must suppose that her letter has got lost in the post. Let her suppose what she will, this money is mine."

Having made these remarks under her breath, Bertha calmly tore poor Florence's letter into a thousand tiny fragments. These she scattered to the four winds, and then, humming a gay air to herself, proceeded on her way to Hilchester. She transacted her business, went to a shop and purchased out of one of Florence's sovereigns some gay ribbons and laces for her own bedizenment, and then returned home.

"Did you post my letter?" said Florence, who met her in one of the corridors.

"Yes, dear, I am glad to say it caught the evening post."

"Then that's right, and mother will receive it early to-morrow," thought the girl to herself.

The feeling that her money would relieve her mother contrived to ease her overburdened conscience, and she was more cheerful and happy-looking that evening.

The next day at an early hour, as Florence was standing in the oak parlor alone for a wonder, for neither Mary Bateman nor Kitty Sharston were present, Bertha Keys came into the room.

"The subject of the composition is to be set this afternoon," she said. "You are good at composition, are you not, Miss Aylmer?"

"No, that is it—I am very bad indeed," replied Florence.

"I am very sorry, for I believe a great deal turns on the way the themes are done. They must be very good ones."

"I must do my best," said Florence, in a gloomy voice; "there is not the least doubt that I shall beat Kitty Sharston in mathematics and arithmetic, and as to Mary Bateman, she has not a scrap of imagination in her composition."

"But the little Kitty has a great deal," said Miss Keys, in a reflective tone. "I have read some of her themes; she has a poetical mind. The programme for the great day is to be given out also this afternoon, and I believe Sir John intends to read the three Scholarship essays aloud, and the guests present are then to vote with regard to the fortunate winner. Of course, the theme will not quite decide the Scholarship, but it will go a very long way in that direction. I have seen Sir John, and I know that all his tendencies, all his feelings are in favor of Miss Sharston."

"There is little doubt on that point," replied Florence; "if it were not for Kitty Sharston this Scholarship would never have been offered. I wish it never had been offered," she continued, with a burst of confidence which she could scarcely repress. "Oh, Miss Keys, I have a great weight on my mind; I am a miserable girl."

"I see you are, but why don't you confide in me? I believe I could sympathize with you; I also believe I could help you."

"I will, I must win," said poor Florence. "Oh, I could scarcely sleep last night with thinking of my mother. I am so truly, truly glad that you were able to post that letter in time; but for your happening to go to Hilchester she would not have had it this morning. Now she must be feeling great relief."

"I can post as many more letters to your mother as you like," said Bertha Keys. "I will do anything in my power for you; I want you to believe that. I want you to believe also that I am in a position to give you serious and substantial help."

"Thank you," said Florence. She gazed into Bertha's eyes, and felt a strange thrill.

Bertha had a rare power of magnetism, and could influence almost any girl who had not sufficiently high principles to withstand her power.

She now hastily left the oak parlor to attend to her studies, and Florence sat down to begin her studies. Her head ached, and she felt restless and miserable. She envied Kitty's serene face and Mary Bateman's downright, sensible way of attacking her subjects.

"I cannot think how you keep so calm about it," she said to Mary, in the course of that morning; "suppose you lose?"

"I have thought it all out," answered Mary, "and I cannot do more than my best. If I succeed I shall be truly, truly glad. If I fail I shall be no worse off than I was before. I wish you would feel as I do about it, Florry, and not make yourself quite ill over the subject. The fact is you are not half as nice as you were last term when everyone called you Tommy."

"Oh, I know, I know," answered Florence, "but I cannot go back now. What do you think the theme for the Scholarship will be?"

"I have not the slightest idea. That theme will be Kitty's strong point; there is not the slightest doubt about that."

Florence bent again over her French exercise. She was fairly good at French, and her German was also passable, but as she read and worked and struggled through a difficult piece of translation her thoughts wandered again and again to the subject of the English theme. What would it be? History, poetry, or anything literary?

The more she thought, the less she liked the idea of this supreme test.

Dinner passed, and the moment for the reassembling of the school for afternoon work arrived. Just as all the girls were streaming into the large schoolroom, Mrs. Clavering came hurriedly forward.

"Before you begin your duties this afternoon, young ladies," she said, "I have received a communication from Sir John, and as you are all interested in the Scholarship, which may be offered another year to some further girls of Cherry Court School, I may as well say that I have just received a letter from him suggesting the theme for the essay. I will repeat to you what he has said."

Mrs. Clavering stood beside her desk and looked down the long school-room. The room contained at this moment every girl in the school, also the teachers. Florence glanced in the direction of Bertha Keys. She was standing just where a ray of light from one of the windows caught the reflection of her red hair, which surrounded her pale face like a glory. She wore it, not in the fashion of the day, but in an untidy and yet effective style. The girls of the day wore their hair neatly plaited and smooth to their heads.

One of Mrs. Clavering's special objections to Bertha was her untidy head. She often longed to ask her to get a brush and smooth out those rough locks.

Nevertheless, that very roughness of her hair gave her face a look of power, and several girls gazed at her now half fascinated. Bertha's light blue eyes flashed one glance in Florence's direction, and were then lowered. She liked best to keep her most secret thoughts to herself.

Mrs. Clavering glanced round the room, and then, opening Sir John's letter, spread it out before her.

"I will read you my friend's letter aloud," she said; "you will all clearly understand what he says." She then proceeded to read:

"MY DEAR MRS. CLAVERING: After a great deal of reflection I have resolved that the all-important essay which the lucky three are to write shall be on the following subject—Heroism. This opens up a wide field, and will test the capacities of each of the young competitors. The essay is to be written under the following conditions: It is to be the unaided work of the competitor; it is to contain not less than two thousand words and not more than two thousand five hundred. It is to be written without the aid of books of reference, and when finished is to be unsigned and put into a blank envelope. The three envelopes containing the essays are to be handed to you, who will not open them, but will place them before me on the night of the Scholarship competition.

"Further particulars with regard to the competition I will let you know in a few days, but I may as well say now that most of the examination will be viva voce, and will consist of eight questions relating to the study of the French language, eight questions on the study of the German tongue, eight mathematical questions, eight arithmetical questions, eight questions on English History, and eight on English Literature. In addition, a piece of music will be played by each girl and a song sung by each; but the final and most searching test of all will be the essay, which in itself will contain, I doubt not, the innermost heart of the competitor, for she cannot truly write on Heroism without understanding something of what a hero or heroine should be. Thus that innermost spirit which must guide her life will come to the front. Her spelling and English composition will be subjected to the best tests by means of those written words; her handwriting will not go without comment; her style will be noted. She can make her essay rich with reference, and thus prove the varied quality of her reading. And the grace of her diction will to a certain extent testify to her ladylike deportment and the entire breadth of her education.

"I need add no more. I have thought deeply over this matter, and trust my subject will meet with universal approval.

"Yours very truly, "JOHN WALLIS."



CHAPTER XVI.

TEMPTATION

Amongst the many duties which fell to the care of Bertha Keys was the one of looking after the postbag. Every afternoon she took the girls' letters and put them in that receptacle, hanging the key on a little hook in the hall. Morning after morning it was she who received the postbag, unlocked it, and brought the contents to Mrs. Clavering, who always distributed the letters herself. Thus it was easy for Bertha to abstract the letters which contained the Dawlish postmark. She did this for a reason. It would never do for Florence to find out that her mother had not received the letter with the postoffice order.

Bertha knew well that if enquiries were made it could be quickly proved that she had never obtained a postoffice order at all, and thus her own ruin would be the result of her theft. She had taken the two sovereigns in a momentary and strong impulse, and had since to a certain extent regretted her foolhardy and wicked deed. Not that she regretted it because she had stolen the money, but because she feared the consequences. She now, therefore, had a double object for putting Florence Aylmer into her power. If she could do that, if by means of some underhand action on her part she could win the Scholarship for Florence, Florence would help her in the future, and even if Bertha's theft was known to her, would never dare to betray her. It is well known that it is the first step which costs, and Bertha's first theft was followed by the purloining of several letters from poor Mrs. Aylmer to her daughter.

At first Florence, relieved with regard to her mother's financial condition, did not bother about this silence. She was very much occupied and intensely anxious on her own account, but when more than a week went by and she had no letter from Dawlish, she began to get alarmed. What could be wrong?

In these days it would be easy for a girl to satisfy her nervous terrors by means of a telegram, but in 1870 a telegram cost a shilling, and Florence was now saving every penny of her money to send to her mother. She hoped soon to have another two pounds to transmit to her by means of a post-office order. For Mrs. Aylmer the great was thoroughly generous now to Florence, and never a letter arrived which did not contain a money remittance.

"She never guesses that it all goes to the little Mummy, that it helps to cheer her life and to give her some of the comforts she needs," thought the anxious girl; "but why, why does not Mummy write?"

When ten days had gone by, Florence sat down one morning and wrote to her mother:

"DARLING MUMMY: I cannot understand your silence. You have not even acknowledged the post-office order which I sent to you. I meant to wait until I could send you another postoffice order for two pounds, but I won't delay any longer, but will send you a postoffice order for one pound to-day. Darling, darling Mummy, I do wonder how you are. Please write by return mail to your loving daughter, FLORENCE AYLMER."

Having written and signed her letter, Florence addressed it, stamped it, and laid it by her desk. She then took out some sheets of manuscript paper on which she was vainly endeavoring to sketch out a scheme for her essay on Heroism. The conditions which attached to this essay were already neatly written out by Mrs. Clavering's directions, and were placed opposite to her on her desk: "The essay must contain not less than two thousand words. It must be the unaided work of the competitor. It must further be written without reference to books."

Florence, smart enough about most things, was altogether foiled when a work which must so largely be a work of imagination was required of her.

It was a half-holiday in the school, and Mary Bateman and Kitty Sharston were not sharing the oak parlor with Florence. They were out in the cherry orchard; their gay voices and merry laughter might have been heard echoing away through the open window.

Florence sighed heavily. As she did so she heard the handle of the door turn and Bertha Keys came softly in. Bertha brought a basket with her. It contained some stockings belonging to the little ones which she was expected to darn. She sat down on the low window-ledge and, threading her needle, proceeded to work busily. She did not glance in Florence's direction, although Florence knew well that she was aware of her presence, and in all probability was secretly watching her.

The silence in the room was not broken for several minutes. Bertha continued to draw her needle in and out of the little socks she was darning. Once or twice she glanced out of the open window, and once or twice she cast a long, sly glance in the direction of Florence's bent head. The scratch of Florence's pen over the paper now and then reached her ears. At last Florence stopped her work abruptly, leant back in her chair, stretched out her arms behind her head, uttered a profound yawn which ended in a sigh, and then, turning round, she spoke.

"I wish to goodness, Bertha," she said, "you wouldn't sit there just like a statue; you fidget me dreadfully."

"Would you rather I went out of the room, dear?" said Bertha, gently.

"No, no, of course not; only do you mind sitting so that I can see you? I hate to have anyone at my back."

Bertha very quietly moved her seat. The oak parlor had many windows, and she now took one which exactly faced Florence. As she did so she said, in a very quiet, insinuating sort of voice, "How does the essay on Heroism proceed?"

"Oh, it does not proceed a bit," said Florence; "I cannot master it. I am not a heroine, and how can I write about one? I think it was a very shabby trick on the part of Sir John Wallis to set us such a theme."

"Don't worry about it if your head aches," said Bertha. "You can only do work of that sort if you feel calm and in a good humor. Above all things, for work of the imaginative order you must have confidence in yourself."

"Then if I wait for the day when I have confidence in my own power and feel perfectly calm, the essay will never be written at all," said Florence.

"That would be bad," remarked Bertha; "you want to get that Scholarship, don't you?"

"I must get it; my whole life turns on it."

Bertha smiled, sighed very gently, lowered her eyes once more, and proceeded with her darning.

"I don't believe you have a bit of sympathy for me," said Florence, in an aggrieved voice.

"Yes, but I have; I pity you terribly. I see plainly that you are doomed to the most awful disappointment."

"What do you mean? I tell you I will get the Scholarship."

"You won't unless you write a decent essay."

"Oh, Bertha, you drive me nearly mad; I tell you I will get it."

"All the willing and the wishing in the world won't make the impossible come to pass," retorted Bertha, and now she once more threaded her darning-needle and took out another stocking from the basket.

"Then what is to be done?" said Florence. "Do you know what will happen if I fail?"

"No; tell me," said Bertha, and now she put down her stocking and looked full into the face of her young companion.

"Aunt Susan will give me up. I have told you about Aunt Susan."

"Ah, yes, have you not? I can picture her, the rich aunt with the generous heart, the aunt who is devoted to the niece, and small wonder, for you are a most attractive girl, Florence. The aunt who provides all the pretty dresses, and the pocket-money, and the good things, and who has promised to take you into society by and by, to make you a great woman, who will leave you her riches eventually. It is a large stake, my dear Florence, and worth sacrificing a great deal to win."

"And you have not touched on the most important point of all," said Florence. "It is this: I hate that rich aunt who all the time means so much to me, and I love, I adore, I worship my mother. You would think nothing of my mother, Bertha, for she is not beautiful, and she is not great; she is perhaps what you would call commonplace, and she has very, very little to live on, and that very little she owes to my aunt, but all the same I would almost give my life for my mother, and if I fail in the Scholarship my mother will suffer as much as I. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I am an unhappy girl!"

Bertha rose abruptly, walked over to Florence, and laid her hand on her shoulder.

"Now, look here," she said, "you can win that Scholarship if you like."

"How so? What do you mean?"

"Are you willing to make a great sacrifice to win it?"

"A great sacrifice?" said Florence, wearily; "what can you mean?"

"I will tell you presently, but first of all amuse yourself by reading this."

"Oh, I am in no mood to amuse myself; I must face my terrible position."

"Ah, I see you have written a letter to your mother; shall I put it in the postbag for you?"

"No, thank you; I mean to walk into Hilchester myself presently. I want to post that letter myself. I am anxious at not hearing from mother; she has never acknowledged my last postoffice order. I mean to send her another to-day, and I want to post the letter myself."

"Then I will walk into Hilchester with you after tea. We shall have plenty of time to get there and back before dark."

"Thank you," said Florence; "that will do very well."

"Now, then, read this. Put your essay away for the present. I can see by the expression on your face that you have a terrible headache."

"But why should I read that, Bertha? What is it?"

Bertha had thrust into Florence's hand a small magazine. It was called "The Flower of Youth," and had a gay little cover of bright pink. There were one or two pictures inside, rather badly done, for black-and-white drawings in cheap magazines were not a special feature of the early seventies. The letterpress was also printed on poor paper, and the whole get-up of the little three-penny weekly was shabby. Nevertheless, Florence glanced over it with a momentary awakening of interest in her eyes.

"I never heard of 'The Flower of Youth' before," she said. "Is it a well-known magazine?"

"It is one of the first magazines of the day," said Bertha, in a proud voice; "will you read this little paper?"

Florence's eyes lighted upon a short essay. It was called "The Contented Heart," and her first glance at it made her sigh.

"My heart is so terribly discontented I don't want to read about the contented heart just now," she said.

"Oh, but I do wish you would; it is not long, Florence."

Urged by a peculiar look in Bertha's eyes, Florence did read the short essay. It was couched in plain language and was forcible and to a certain extent clever. It occupied but a couple of pages, and having once begun, Florence read on to the end without a pause.

"Well," she said at last, "I should judge by that writing that the author had not a contented mind. It seems to say a great deal about things the other way round."

"Ah, but how do you judge the writing? Is that good or bad?"

"Good, I should say; it interested me immensely. I was full of worries and it seemed to lift them and smooth them away. I forgot them for the time being. Yes, I should say that essay was well written, but I didn't think about the writing at all."

"Ah, then it was well written," said Bertha. "But it is nearly tea time; don't let us say anything more about it now. I will tell you when we are walking to Hilchester."

She caught up the little magazine, thrust it into her pocket, and left the room without glancing at Florence again.

"What a queer girl she is!" thought Florence to herself. She had run up to her room to wash her hands, for tea, and presently joined her companions in the tea-room.

Half an hour later Florence and Bertha were on their way to Hilchester. Both girls were feeling anxious. Florence had that weight of care ever at her heart, and Bertha was wondering by what means she could smuggle the letter to Mrs. Aylmer out of her daughter's hands. Think and think as she would, however, she could see no way of preventing that postoffice order being obtained, of its being slipped into the envelope, and put into the post. She was noted for her ready wit, however, and ingenuity, and she could only now trust to what she termed a lucky chance. One thing, however, was more important than ever; she must as quickly as possible get Florence into her power.

"Well," she said, as the two girls strolled arm in arm down the shady lane towards Hilchester, "you wonder, don't you, why I showed you 'The Flower of Youth' this morning?"

"I had forgotten all about it," said Florence, frowning.

"I will tell you now. You admired that little paper on a contented heart!"

"It interested me," said Florence, "but why do you harp so about it? I have so much to think of, it is rather bothering for you to go back again and again to the same subject. The writer of that paper has not a contented heart."

"How clever of you to say that, for it is true."

"True! Do you know the writer?"

"I happen to know her."

"You know a real live author! Are you joking, Bertha? You must be joking."

"I know her," said Bertha, casting down her eyes, and a modest expression creeping over her face, "I know her well, for she—don't start away from me, Flo—she happens to be your humble servant."

"Now you must be joking! You are the author of 'The Contented Heart'?"

"I am, dear. I got five shillings for that little essay; not much, you will say, but better than nothing. The editor praised me and asked for more. I write occasionally in 'The Flower of Youth,' and when I am very hard up I am glad of the few shillings my writings bring me."

"Then you are a real genius," said Florence "and I respect you."

"I am glad you respect me; I always had a gift for writing."

"I should like to read your essay, 'The Contented Heart,' again."

"You shall, dear, you shall. I have always said that you could understand me, Florence, but you must not reveal my secret. I would not have it known in the school for worlds that I am an author. It would be fatal."

"But why? Are you not proud of the fact?"

"Oh, yes, I am proud of it, but perhaps Mrs. Clavering might not approve. People have strange ideas in these days. They think when a girl puts herself into print she makes herself too public."

"But they can't think that. Why, they would make you into a perfect heroine; you are a great, great genius, Bertha."

"I am glad you think I have a little talent," said Bertha, in a modest voice.

"But it is a great deal more. Have you ever written stories?"

"A few; but I have never published any."

"Some day you will write a great book, a book that will live. You will be a second Currer Bell."

"Ah, how I adore 'Jane Eyre,'" said Bertha, in a low, intense voice. "Currer Bell has a great soul; she lifts the curtain, she reveals to you her heart."

"I wish I could read 'Jane Eyre' again," said Florence. "I read it once when I was at home for the holidays, but Mrs. Clavering does not approve of novels."

"Mrs. Clavering is a little old-fashioned. Let us walk quickly, Florence. Do you know that I write poetry, too?"

"Oh, then you are a tremendous genius."

"I have a little talent," replied Bertha once more; "but now, Florence, I have a suggestion to offer."

There was something in her tone which caused Florence's heart to beat; she seemed to guess all of a sudden what was coming.

Bertha turned and gazed at her. "Look here," she said, "I don't do things without a reason. I am anxious to be your friend because—well, because I do like you, and also because I think you may be useful to me by and by."

"I am sure I cannot imagine what you mean, for it is not in my power to be useful to anyone. Your friendship for me must be disinterested, Bertha."

"That is as it may be," answered Bertha, in a dubious voice; "we will say nothing on that point at present. You want to get the Scholarship?"

"I must get it."

"You shall, with my aid."

"Now what do you mean?"

"It all depends on yourself, Florence. How much are you prepared to sacrifice to win the Scholarship?"

"To sacrifice? to sacrifice?" Florence felt very uneasy. She tried to wriggle away from her companion, who held her arm firmly. "To sacrifice?" she repeated.

"Yes, that's just about it—how much?"

"Well, my time—my health even."

"You must go a little further than that, Florence, if you mean to win."

"What do you mean?"

"I will be quite plain with you," said Bertha. "If you are not prepared to sacrifice more than your time, more than your health, you will fail, for Kitty Sharston has what you have not. She has the imaginative mind and the noble heart."

"Oh," said Florence. She colored, and tried to wriggle once again away from her companion.

"I must speak plainly," said Bertha. "At a moment like this there is no good beating about the bush. Kitty will write an essay on Heroism which will win her the Scholarship; she will do so because she is animated by a very great and noble love. She will do so because she has got poetry in her composition. You must face that fact. As to Mary Bateman, she is out of the running. She is a good girl and might even go ahead of you were the theme not the supreme and final test; but that being the test, Kitty will win. You may as well put down your oars at once, Florence; you may as well lower your colors, if you cannot compete with Kitty on her own ground."

"I know it; it is shockingly unfair."

"But all the same, you can win if you will make the supreme sacrifice."

"What is that?"

"The sacrifice of your honor."

"Oh, no; oh, no; oh, what do you mean?"

"That is what I mean. You can think it all over. I will make my suggestion, for I know you won't betray me. I will write your essay for you. I can do it. I can write on noble things; I am well educated; I am to a certain extent a practiced writer. I may not have Kitty's talent, but I have—what she has not—the practiced pen. She will struggle, but she cannot succeed against me. I will write the essay on Heroism, and you shall accept it as your work. Now, think it over; don't answer me at once."



CHAPTER XVII.

THE FALL.

The remainder of that walk was taken in complete silence. Florence's head felt as if it were going round. There was a buzzing noise in her ears. Higher and yet higher over her moral nature did the waves of temptation rise. She struggled, but each struggle was feebler than the last. They reached Hilchester, and Bertha looked at her companion.

"You are as white as a sheet," she said; "won't you go in and rest at Mrs. Baker's shop? I shall call there presently for buns and things I am bringing back for the conversazione to-night; she will gladly let you rest. The postoffice is quite five minutes' walk from here. Let me post your letter for you. Have you the money in your pocket for the order?"

"I think I will rest at Mrs. Baker's," said Florence. "You will be sure to get the order all right, Bertha? Here is the letter; put the order in, won't you, and then put the letter in the post?"

"Yes, yes," said Bertha; "I'll be as quick as possible."

She almost snatched the letter from Florence's hand, took the sovereign, slipped it into her purse, and walked down the street with rapid strides. In less than a quarter of an hour she had returned to Florence.

"It is all right," she said, briskly; "and now for my commissions here. I hope you are more rested, Flo."

"Oh, yes, I am quite rested," replied Florence; but there was a dead sort of look on her face and the color had gone out of her eyes.

Bertha walked briskly to the counter. She was in excellent spirits, her carriage was perfectly upright, her well-poised head looked almost queenly as it rested on her graceful shoulders. Her figure was Bertha's strong point, and it never looked better than now. Even Florence as she glanced at her was conscious of a dull admiration.

How clever Bertha was, and really, when you come to consider her carefully, how stylish and good-looking!

"I shall never again as long as I live say that I dislike red hair," thought Florence to herself. "Yes, Bertha certainly has a remarkable face; no wonder she is able to write; and as to her eyes, I shall end by liking her eyes. They do look as if they held a secret power."

Bertha having given her orders now, waited until Mrs. Baker, the confectioner's wife, had made up the cakes and biscuits and chocolate creams which were necessary for the evening conversazione. Each girl then carried a large parcel, and retraced her steps in the direction of Cherry Court School. Their walk back was as silent as the latter part of their walk to Hilchester.

Just as they were entering the porch of the school Bertha laid her hand on her companion's arm.

"Well?" she said.

"I cannot give you my answer to-night; I will to-morrow," said Florence.

"All right, Flo; but let me tell you in advance I know what that answer will be."

Florence felt a shudder run all through her frame. She ran upstairs to the dormitory. It was late, and time to dress for the evening festivities.

Kitty was in her cubicle. Mary Bateman in hers. Neither girl had drawn her curtain, and when they saw Florence they each began to talk to her.

"Do you know, Florence," said Mary, "that that little genius Kitty has absolutely written her essay, finished it all between tea and this hour. She means to polish it to-morrow, but the rough draft is done. I feel quite in despair when I look at her."

"Oh, you need not; I don't suppose it is good a bit," said Kitty.

"I dare not ask you what it is about," said Mary, "or I would love beyond words to read it. When I look at your face and then think that you were asked to write on Heroism, I feel that you were given a task which neither Florence nor I can execute."

"Speak for yourself, pray," said Florence, in a cross voice. She gave a vindictive glance at Mary, avoided meeting Kitty's eyes, and vanished into her own cubicle. Here she drew the turkey-red curtain, glanced wildly round, and the next moment had dropped on her knees.

"Oh, please, God, save me from myself," whispered the wretched girl. "Help me out of this somehow. Give me the strength to write the essay myself. Oh, please, God, I must—I must have the Scholarship. Please, please give me the ability, the genius to write the essay myself."

Her wild, distracted prayer was the reverse of soothing. She sprang up, poured some water into her basin, and began to wash her face and hands; then she dressed herself neatly and gracefully. There were no lack of pretty dresses now for Florence Aylmer to bedeck herself in. She took great pains with her toilet. There was a certain satisfaction, as she donned her silken chains, in knowing that at least she could look as well as Kitty, nicer even than Kitty, as far as dress was concerned.

Mrs. Aylmer the great had excellent taste, and every one of Florence's frocks were suitable for Florence to wear. They were all girlish and simple. The frock she chose to-night was of a very pale pink. It was made of the simplest stuff, and was not trimmed at all. It gave grace to her figure and added to her height. A little ruffle of lace surrounded her girlish throat, and on her arm she slipped a gold bangle, Mrs. Aylmer's latest present. She then ran downstairs to the drawing-room. In her pretty shoes and silk stockings and well-fitting dress Florence made quite a graceful figure. She dropped a curtsey at the door as she was required to do, and then, going forward, took her place beside Kitty Sharston and Mary Bateman.

These three girls were, according to the rules of the competition, to entertain their companions. Neither Kitty nor Mary were in the least self-conscious, and to-night Florence also, in the pressure of a great misery, contrived to forget herself.

Mrs. Clavering looked at her with distinct approval.

"How that girl has improved," she said, bending towards Sir John Wallis, who invariably appeared on these occasions. "She will end in being handsome."

"Yes, she is a distinguished-looking girl," said Sir John, just glancing at Florence, and then looking away again, "but Kitty is my choice; give me the little wildflower Kitty. How sweet she is!"

"Well, of course, she belongs to a totally different order of being," said Mrs. Clavering, dropping her voice; "but what about the Scholarship, Sir John?"

"I dare not think of anyone else winning it," said Sir John; "but, of course, I have to face the fact that either of the other girls may succeed. Above all things, one must act fairly."

"I just doubted whether you gave a fair subject for the essay," said Mrs. Clavering.

"What do you mean?"

"Heroism," repeated the head mistress, speaking slowly and dropping her voice. "With such a subject you appeal so distinctly to the heart. If the heart does not respond, the essay on Heroism will never be done justice to."

"Ay, it is the supreme test, the supreme test," said Sir John, slowly. Again his eyes wandered to Kitty. From her charming, bright, anxious face he looked at Florence. It so happened that at that moment Florence had raised her own dark eyes and fixed them on him. The suffering she had lately lived through had added refinement to her face, and the baronet caught himself looking at her again and again.

"Yes, she has improved; there is something in her; but what is she so unhappy about, I wonder?" he thought.

Just then Mary Bateman skipped up, asked his opinion with regard to a fresh sketch she was making, and carried him away to chat with her in a corner.

Next to Kitty, Sir John certainly liked plain little Mary best.

Light refreshments were brought in on little trays, and the girls were invited to partake. The three young hostesses acted with aplomb and much tact. Dull girls were drawn out of themselves, lively girls were placed with suitable companions. Games were proposed, which were all conducted in a spirited and lively manner, and finally the proceedings ended with a gay dance. It was at this moment, just when the dance was in full swing, that Sir John Wallis came up and offered his arm to Florence.

"Will you waltz with me?" he said.

She looked up at him, colored with delight, and laid her hand on his arm. The two led the dance, and right merry was the music which was played to it.

The dance had just come to an end when Sir John looked full at Florence and spoke.

"I heard from your aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, and she is much pleased to accept my invitation. She will be my guest on the evening of the 29th, and I hope I may persuade her to stay a few days longer. You must see a great deal of her while she is at Cherry Court Park. You are a great favorite with her, are you not?"

"Of late I have been a favorite," said Florence, and now she looked full at Sir John and her lip trembled.

"There is something the matter with you, my dear," said Sir John.

"Oh, I don't know—nothing." Then she added, as if the words were wrung from her lips, "I hate Aunt Susan."

"Oh, come, come," said Sir John, truly shocked; "let me tell you that is a very unladylike way of speaking and scarcely fair to your aunt, who is doing so much for you."

"That is all you know, Sir John, but I dare not say any more."

"But having said so much, I am afraid you must. I asked you three girls what special friend or relation you would like to be present in the hour of your triumph, and you selected Mrs. Aylmer. If you did not like Mrs. Aylmer, why did you ask her to come? I would gladly have received your own mother."

"I will tell you," said Florence, in a hurried voice. "Mrs. Aylmer is much interested in your Scholarship, Sir John, and she says if I win it that she will adopt me. I shall be her—her heiress then. You understand that it means a great deal to me, the Scholarship?"

"Yes, I understand," said Sir John, gravely. His face looked troubled. "Sit down here, my dear," he said. Florence seated herself on a chair by his side. "I can understand, and I am sorry; it is scarcely fair that your young mind should be strained to this extent. And if you don't win the Scholarship?"

"Ah, if I don't, Aunt Susan will not need you to ask me much to Cherry Court Park. She will wash her hands of me."

"Indeed, this is disturbing."

"I ought not to have told you, and you must pretend that you do not know."

"I shall say nothing, of course; all the same, I am sorry."

Sir John sat very thoughtful for a moment. After a long pause he spoke.

"I ought not to give you any special advantage over the other girls," he said, "but suppose I do this?"

"What?" asked Florence, looking into his face.

"Suppose I have Mrs. Aylmer as my guest and allow you to choose another? What about your mother, Miss Aylmer?"

"Oh, do you mean it?" said Florence; her face flushed, and then turned pale. She had a wild, wild thought that even if she failed her mother would not turn from her. She had a choking sensation in her throat, which made her feel that even in the moment of absolute defeat the little Mummy's kisses would be supporting, cheering, encouraging. Tears brimmed into her eyes. "You are very good," she said.

"Then I'll do it; give me your mother's address. She shall be your guest; the other Mrs. Aylmer shall be mine. And now cheer up, my dear; we can never do more than our best."

Sir John turned aside, and soon afterwards the little party broke up.

That night Florence hardly slept. At a very early hour she awoke. She had prayed her prayer of the night before; she had asked God to help her. As to not winning the Scholarship, that was absolutely and completely out of the question. She must win it. The thought of disgrace was too intolerable; she must, she would win it. She determined to rise now and test her powers of composition. It was between five and six in the morning. She rose very softly, got into her clothes, and stole out of the dormitory.

The light was just beginning to dawn, but there was not light enough to work. Florence slipped softly down to the oak parlor; having secured a candle and a box of matches, she lit the candle and placed it on her desk, and, taking out a sheet of manuscript paper, she pressed her face on her hands, once again uttered a wild, passionate prayer, and then, dipping the pen in the ink, waited for inspiration.

"Heroism," she said, under her breath. "What did it mean?" All that it really meant rushed over her—self-denial, self-abnegation, the noble courage which comes to those who think of others, not themselves. "I cannot write," she said, passionately. She said the words aloud, dashing down her pen and making a blot on the fair sheet of manuscript paper. At that moment the door was opened and Bertha came in.

"I thought I heard a noise," she said; "so it is you? What are you doing there, Florence?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing; but why have you come to tempt me?" said Florence. She raised two haggard eyes to the pupil teacher's face.

"Not to tempt you, but to help you, poor child. Of course, you will do what I wish. There, Florence, I wrote your essay for you last night. It came over me and I wrote it without much trouble. Here it is, dear; you have only to copy it; put it in your desk for the present, there is plenty of time, and go back to bed, dear, for you look worn out."

Florence burst into tears. The next moment she had flung her arms around Bertha's neck and laid her head on her shoulder.

"There, there," said Bertha, "there, there, you are overcome, but it will be all right now."



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE GUESTS ARRIVE.

It wanted three days to the Scholarship competition. The girls who were called in the school the lucky three now scarcely spoke on the subject—the other girls watched them anxiously. All lessons, except those in connection with the Scholarship, were suspended so far as Mary Bateman, Kitty Sharston, and Florence Aylmer were concerned.

The trial essays, the essays which were to be the supreme test of merit, were all written, and in sealed envelopes were handed in to Mrs. Clavering. Meanwhile exercises on history, French, German, arithmetic, were the order of the hour. The girls were busy all day long. The three faces were somewhat pale, and lines which ought not to have appeared round the young eyes and lips were beginning to make themselves manifest.

"I shall be truly thankful when the thing is over," said Mrs. Clavering to Sir John; "this is bad for them, very bad. In particular I do not like Florence Aylmer's expression. The girl thinks too much about this matter. If she fails she will have an illness."

"And if she succeeds Kitty will fail or have an illness," said Sir John, restlessly.

"Kitty will feel it, but she will not have an illness," said Mrs. Clavering; "you have but to see the expression on the two faces to know that. Kitty is anxious also and resolved, but there is a firm, steady, fine sort of expression about her, quite the reverse of poor Florence's."

"Yes, I confess I do not understand that girl," said Sir John; "and yet," he added, "I cannot help liking her; she has a good deal in her."

"I pity her, poor child," said Mrs. Clavering; "she is placed in a very false position. I once met her aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, of Aylmer's Court; that was on the occasion when Florence was brought to my school, and I confess I did not take to her."

Sir John shrugged his shoulders.

"It is invidious to speak of a lady who is soon to be one's guest," he said, "but I also have met Mrs. Aylmer."

On the morning of the same day Florence had received a letter from her mother. Bertha Keys had gone away on the previous evening to visit a sick cousin, and in consequence had not the charge of the postbag. She was very unwilling to leave at this critical moment, but the cousin was ill, required her services. Mrs. Clavering was willing to spare her for one night, there was no help for it; she must go. "I must only trust that no letter will come from Dawlish," she said to herself; "but after all, even if it does, it cannot really matter. Florence must sooner or later feel that she is in my power; perhaps the sooner the better."

Florence found the letter from her mother on the breakfast-table. She stretched out her hand, caught it with a firm grip, thrust it into her pocket, and then applied herself to her breakfast.

"Why don't you read your letter? You know you are allowed to do so," said Edith King, who was seated next to her.

"Oh, it will do after breakfast," said Florence.

"You don't look well, Flo; what is the matter with you?"

"I am a little anxious, if you must know," said Florence, turning round and glancing at her companion; "I have not heard from my mother for two or three weeks; but there, of course, it is all right. She has not even told me whether she has accepted Sir John Wallis's invitation. Sir John told me he had written, but I cannot tell whether she is coming or not."

"It will be delightful for you if she does come, will it not?" said Edith King.

"Oh, yes, delightful," answered Florence. She did not speak any more, but finished her breakfast somewhat hastily. At the first moment she could find herself alone Florence rushed into the cherry orchard and tore open her letter. It contained the following words:

"MY DARLING CHILD:

"Such a wonderful, extraordinary, delightful thing has happened. It is so unexpected that it quite puts out of my head a great deal which has made me anxious up to the present. I have received a letter from no less a person than Sir John Wallis, the distinguished owner of that magnificent place, Cherry Court Park, and he has invited me, my darling, to be present at the moment of your great triumph. He says, which I regret very much, that your Aunt Susan will also be there, but I am asked as your guest, my child. It is all most wonderful, unexpected, and truly fascinating. The effect on the neighbors is already so surprising that I have literally not been obliged to provide myself with a single meal since the news came. The Pratts have invited me each morning to breakfast, and Ann Pratt has assiduously catechized me, so much so that I have found an ancient book on the 'baronial halls of England, and have worked up some information for her benefit from this volume. I never saw anyone so eager as the creature is to find out Sir John's income and all about him. It is extraordinary, but still quite human nature.

"Sukey is wonderfully affected since the news came, and in fact right and left your poor Mummy is quite an honored individual.

"I feel like a heroine, my darling, and walk about Dawlish with my head well up. I am also quite extravagant, and am wearing that dress which I described to you as being turned for the fifth time. It is reckless of me, but I cannot help it. For what do you think, dear?—Sir John has sent me a check for my expenses. He says that he could not possibly ask me to be present if I were put to any expense in the matter, and he has absolutely sent me twenty pounds; so I shall be able to buy a suitable costume to be present in when I see my darling crowned with glory.

"Oh, what a supreme moment it will be! I have already got the black silk, and Miss Macgregor, in the Parade—you know what a fashionable dressmaker she is—is making it up. I shall, of course, wear my widow's bonnet, as it looks so distingue, and Mrs. Sweat, the milliner in the High Street, is making up a new one, most stylish.

"I can add no more now. My heart goes pit-a-pat. When you receive this I shall be packing for my journey. It will be splendid to see Susan in the moment of your triumph. Altogether, dear, I never felt more elated in my life. This great and unexpected excitement has perfectly restored my health. I say to myself—you know, Flo, I always was a reckless little woman—I say to myself, 'Never mind, enjoy the present, Mabel Aylmer, even if afterwards comes the deluge.' Good-bye, my dearest; we shall soon meet and embrace.

"Your most affectionate "MOTHER."

Florence read the letter over once or twice. She then put it in her pocket and paced thoughtfully up and down the cherry orchard. The cherry trees were rapidly dropping their leaves now, and some of them fell over Florence. She shook them off impatiently.

"It was queer of mother never to mention those postoffice orders which I sent her," thought the girl; "she has not even thanked me for them; but there, I suppose it is all right, and she is very happy. It was good of Sir John to send her that twenty pounds, and yet—and yet it chokes me to think of it. He would not dare to send the money to Kitty's cousin, Helen Dartmoor, nor would he dare to send it to Mary Bateman's father. Oh, if I can only win this Scholarship I shall hold my head high and exercise that pride, which, after all, no woman ought to be without."

Florence went back to the house, and soon afterwards Bertha Keys entered the oak parlor. In the course of the morning she sat next to Florence, who bent towards her and said, "I have had a long letter from my mother."

"Oh, indeed," said Bertha, changing color in spite of herself; "and what did she say?"

"She is coming to Cherry Court Park. Bertha, it is rather queer she has said nothing at all about the postoffice orders. I wonder if she got them safely."

"Is it likely she didn't?" replied Bertha, in a calm voice; "of course she did. She was too excited to think of them; to have an invitation of that sort would absorb her very much."

"It does absorb her very much indeed," replied Florence. "Doubtless she forgot. Well, I shall soon see her and be able to ask her all about the matter."

Sir John Wallis had arranged that the three girls who were to compete for the Scholarship were to arrive at Cherry Court Park early on the morning of the great day. They were to sleep there that night, and return to the school the following day. The rest of the school were to arrive in the evening, but the Scholarship girls were to have the run of the Hall, and were to be entertained as the honored guests during the whole of the important day.

No girls could possibly be more excited than these three when at last the morning broke. Florence, who had scarcely slept at all the previous night, felt that she would be almost glad, even if the worst befell her, to have the terrible ordeal over.

"By this time to-morrow I shall be the happiest girl in the world or the most truly miserable," she thought to herself. But the greatness of the ordeal now had a certain composing effect, and Kitty, Mary and Florence started off in Sir John's carriage in apparently high spirits.

"What do you think?" said Kitty, bending forward and touching Mary on the sleeve; "Sir John has promised if I succeed to send a cable to father. Isn't it perfectly splendid of him? He has not said anything to father about the cable. What a surprise and delight it will be if he gets it."

"I wish you would not tell me," said Mary; "when I look into your eyes and see all that this means to you I feel a perfect brute, and yet nevertheless I mean to play my very best to-night, and to sing with all my heart in my voice, and to answer each question as carefully as I can, for my dear, dear old father will be present. Oh, how happy, how delighted I shall be to meet him again!"

"Yes, it will be splendid for you; and you, Florence, how glad you will be to see your mother," said Kitty. "But, oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish it hadn't been necessary to ask Helen Dartmoor to be present on the great occasion."

The girls went to the Hall in neat morning dresses, but the white dresses they were to wear in the evening, which were by Sir John's orders to be pure white, had already been sent on to the Hall.

The day was a glorious one, and as they drove through the beautiful scenery in Sir John's immense park a golden mist lay over everything. At last they drew up before the great front entrance. A group of ladies were standing in the hall. Sir John came down the steps. The next moment a little figure was seen running briskly forward, and Florence was clasped in the arms of the little Mummy.

"My darling! my darling!" said little Mrs. Aylmer. Florence kissed her with a quick passion, held her then at arm's length, looked into her face, and crushed some moisture out of her own eyes.

Meanwhile a very trim, staid-looking woman, with faded hair, pale blue eyes, and a correct, old-maid sort of demeanor, had given Kitty a light kiss on her forehead. "How do you do?" she said, in an accent which was truly Scotch. "It was very kind of Sir John to invite me to the Hall. I hope, for your own sake, you will win the Scholarship."

Kitty answered as brightly as she could.

"If not, of course, you are fully aware that you will be my guest for the next two or three years. It is scarcely likely you will win the Scholarship, and I have already been making all the arrangements I could with regard to your instruction," said Miss Dartmoor. "Will you come round the place now with me; I should like to have some conversation with you. I have not seen you for some little time."