Kitty gave a wild glance round. Would not Sir John help her? Helen Dartmoor was the only person in the world that she truly disliked. She felt a restless sensation rising up in her heart, but there was no escape. Sir John had gone off with Mary Bateman and Mary's father. Florence and her mother had already vanished inside the house. Kitty had to submit to her fate.

Helen Dartmoor walked with prim, small steps. She had a little three-cornered shawl on her shoulders, and an old-fashioned bonnet was tied under her chin. Her perfectly cold, serene face glanced now and then at Kitty.

"You are not improved, Catherine," she said.

"Why do you say that?" replied Kitty.

"You look anxious and excitable. I dislike a woman showing any emotion. Of course, you are only a child yet, but I trust if I have the care of you, which I fully expect to have—for it is scarcely likely you will for a single moment win this ridiculous Scholarship—I trust that I shall send you out to your father a well-mannered and decorous woman. I have the greatest dislike to the manners of the present day, and the new sort of girl who is growing up so rapidly in our midst is thoroughly abhorrent to me."

"Well, Helen," said Kitty, glancing full at her, "I know you won't mind if I am frank. I certainly wish to win the Scholarship; I am struggling with all my might and main to win it. It is of the utmost importance to me, for I want to be as well educated as possible when I go to dear father in India; but if I fail—yes, Helen, I will try my very best to please you while I am under your roof."

"Hoots, lass, you cannot do more, but do not speak in such exaggerated phrases. Now let us walk down this avenue. What a beautiful view! How soothing is nature in all her aspects!"

Kitty could not help shuddering. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" she whispered, under her breath, "how am I to live if I lose the Scholarship!"

Meanwhile little Mrs. Aylmer, clasping a firm hold of Florence's arm, had carried her off right through the house and into one of the gardens at the back. "Your Aunt Susan is not down yet," she said; "it is the most merciful Providence, for I judge from her manner of last night that she means to absorb you. Now, then, darling, tell me what are your chances?"

"Oh, I don't know, mother; I suppose they are pretty good, and I have tried my best—I can't do any more."

"Really, Florence, you look quite splendid; I would not know you for the same girl. How your figure has changed; you have attained quite an elegant shape, my love—small waist, rounded form, a little pale, paler than I should wish, but your eyes have greatly improved; they have got a sort of pathetic expression in them which is very becoming, very becoming indeed." Mrs. Aylmer danced in front of Florence, examining each feature critically, her own small eyes twinkling, and her round face flushing in her excitement.

"Oh, isn't it a magnificent place?" she said, "and such a dinner as they had last night—course after course, if you'll believe me. I should think there must have been fifteen courses if there was one. I kept counting them, and then my poor head got so confused, for I was seated not far from Sir John, and he talked to me in such a kind, marked sort of way, and your Aunt Susan kept glittering her pale blue eyes at me as if she was eaten up with jealousy. I tell you, my darling, I did enjoy myself; I gave myself away, and talked in a frank, pleasant, easy sort of style. I made several of the guests laugh, I did really. Florence, my dear, my dress is beautiful; it quite stands out with richness. I assure you, my love, you will have no cause to be ashamed of your little Mummy to-night. I got Miss Macgregor to put a yard and a half of train into the back—a yard and a half, Flo, and it quite adds to my height. I have not had such a lovely dress since your poor dear father's time—that I haven't. I thought I would like to thank Sir John in private, and to tell him that I have made the money for my expenses go so far that I was able to purchase the dress."

"Oh, mother, please, please, mother, don't!" said Florence, in a tone of agony.

"Why not, my sweet child? If Sir John knows that I am thoroughly poor he may give me another little douceur—there's no saying."

"Oh, mother, mother, you don't know what agony this gives me!"

"My poor child, but are not you glad that your little Mummy has got some money? Dear me, Flo, I have been ill since you saw me last. I was almost at death's door, and Dr. Hunt was so kind, coming in two or three times a day. But there, I have not paid his bill yet; it is fearful to think of it! Now, I should really like to take Sir John into my confidence. I would not ask him for the money, but I should just tell him exactly how I am placed, with so much a year—very, very little; a scrimped, tightened widow: that's the only way in which I can express my condition, scrimped and tightened, nothing else. A generous cheque from him would set all right."

"Mother, you must promise me here and now that you will say nothing on the subject to Sir John. And, Mummy dear, that reminds me, you never acknowledged my postoffice orders. I know I hadn't much to send you, but what I did have I sent, and I promised that you should have ten shillings a week, my pocket-money, until you had paid the doctor's bill. I could do no more. Mummy dear, what is the matter? Why do you look at me like that, Mummy?"

"I may well ask you what is the matter?" said Mrs. Aylmer, now standing stock still in front of her daughter and raising a round, agitated face to Florence. "Postoffice orders, and from you, Flo! Oh, my dear, darling, precious child, I have been wondering at never hearing from you. I wrote to tell you all about my illness—not until it was over, Flo; as I said to myself, 'No, the child shall not be disturbed; that Scholarship she must win. I will not tell her that her mother is ill until her mother is out of danger.' But when the danger was past I told you—oh, my darling, I have not had any postoffice orders from you nor any letters whatsoever—none whatsoever, Flo, and I have been so astonished. I have tried not to feel hurt. I am very sensible about most things. I was sure that you did not write because you were too busy to write, but still, in the dead of night, I did shed one or two tears—I did really, my own pet."

"But, mother, this is too extraordinary for anything. I sent you two postoffice orders, the first was for two pounds, the second for one. Do you mean to say that you never got them?"

"Never, my darling; I have been robbed. Who could have done it? Oh, Flo, this is fearful; three pounds sent to me by my own darling, and I never to receive the money! What can it mean, Florence—what can it mean?"

"Say no more, mother; I will see about this."



CHAPTER SIX.

TIT FOR TAT.

The long, bewildering, beautiful day was over and the three candidates for the coming competition were being dressed for the occasion.

The dressing took place in one immense room where the girls were afterwards to sleep, and the assistants at the dressing were no less people than Miss Helen Dartmoor, Mrs. Aylmer the great, and Mrs. Aylmer the less.

Mrs. Aylmer the great and Mrs. Aylmer the less fussed round Florence, fussed round her to such an extraordinary degree that she felt a mad desire to thrust them both out of the room.

The very beautiful dress which Aunt Susan had purchased for Florence in London was, after all, not to be used on this occasion, for Sir John had given forth his mandate that each of the three candidates was to be dressed exactly alike, and as this was his supreme wish he further said that he himself would purchase the dresses for the occasion.

These were made in Greek style, and were long, flowing, and simple. The material was the finest white cashmere edged with swansdown, and each girl had clasped round her waist a belt of massive silver, also Sir John's present. Their hair was unbound and hung down their backs, being kept in its place on the head by a narrow fillet of silver.

Nothing could be simpler and yet more graceful than the dress, the long flowing sleeves falling away from the elbow and showing the young molded arms distinctly.

It so happened that no dress could suit Kitty better, and doubtless Sir John had an eye to the appearance of his favorite in such a robe when he ordered it.

Florence also looked very well in her Greek costume; and even Mary Bateman seemed to acquire added grace and dignity when she put on the pretty classical robe. The girls wore sandals on their feet, and altogether nothing could be choicer and prettier than the dresses which Sir John had devised for them.

Little Mrs. Aylmer almost hopped round Florence as she was being attired in her festive robe.

"I am sure," she said, "I can guess the reason why; I have been wondering over it all day, and at last the solution has come to me. Listen, my dear Miss Bateman; listen, Miss Sharston; Susan, you cannot prevent my speaking. I see, Miss Dartmoor, you are thinking me a little fool, but I have guessed at the solution. It is because in the moment of triumph the brow of the young victor—victress, don't you say? no, of course, victor—will be crowned with a laurel wreath. Ah, how sweet! Florence dear, nothing could be more becoming to you."

Miss Dartmoor was heard to give an indignant snort. She went up to Kitty and looked at her with marked attention.

"I hate the heathenish sort of dress," she exclaimed, "but if it comes to that, I believe that Catherine Sharston will look just as well with a chaplet of leaves round her head as anyone else in the room."

"Oh, we are not disputing that point," said Mrs. Aylmer the less, chirruping away as she spoke, and dancing up to a neighboring looking-glass to take a side view of her own dress; "we are not disputing that point. The one who wins the Scholarship will look beautiful in her wreath of glory. Time will prove who that lucky person will be."

Here she winked at Florence, who turned away.

Her head ached; there was a heavy, heavy feeling at her heart. She had one great desire, which for the time being swallowed up all others, and that was to see Bertha Keys for a moment alone. Bertha was to arrive with the rest of the school in time for the great ceremony, which was to take place in the great central hall of the old house.

The hall had been decorated for the occasion, and in its dark recesses gleamed now many fairy lamps. In the middle of the hall was a dais, on which the judges were to sit, and before whom the young competitors were to appear when the crucial moment came.

A flood of light from many incandescent burners poured down upon this dais, making it one of dazzling light.

The rest of the girls of the school were to sit in a darker part of the hall; they were to be dressed in their best. The guests were to occupy a gallery to the left, except those guests who, by Sir John's special invitation, were to sit upon the dais and give their votes in favor of the essays. Desks were provided also in the middle of the hall for the three young competitors, at which they were to sit to answer the questions which were to be asked them by three professors specially sent for from London by Sir John.

There was not to be the slightest indication of who the successful winner was to be until the crucial moment, and the examination from first to last was expected to occupy about an hour and a half.

While it was going on very soft music was to be played on a distant organ; the competitors were then to go forward and to stand in front of the judges while the three essays were read aloud by no less a person than Sir John himself.

The judges would retire, something like a jury at a court of justice, on hearing the essays, to give their votes for the lucky winner of the Scholarship, and then Sir John was to crown the successful girl with glory. A chaplet of silver bay-leaves was to encircle her brow, and the locket and chain were to be put round her neck. She was to receive the purse which would contain the expenses for one year at Cherry Court School, and the parchment scroll, which through all time would testify to her ability and her triumph, was to be put into her hand.

"Yes, nothing could be more perfect than the arrangements," said Miss Dartmoor, who had heard all about the programme during the course of the day; "but," she added, fixing her eyes now upon the elder Mrs. Aylmer's face, "I disapprove of this sort of thing immensely. I don't suppose for a single moment my cousin, Catherine Sharston, will get the Scholarship; but seeds of envy and discontent will be sown in her heart, and I shall have some trouble in bringing her into a proper frame of mind when she joins me in Scotland."

"I pity you," said Mrs. Aylmer, in reply to this speech, "but the girl looks well-meaning and easily influenced."

"Oh, am I?" thought Kitty, who overheard these words and who could not help giving her little head a toss; "I doubt it. Oh, if it were not for father I don't think I could go through with this evening."

Meanwhile Florence had slipped out of the room. In her pretty Greek dress she glided down the corridor, met a servant, and asked her if the young ladies from school had yet come.

"Yes, miss," was the reply, "and they are all unrobing in the green bedroom at the end of this corridor."

"I should be so much obliged if you would do something for me," said Florence.

"Of course I will, miss," was the reply. The girl gave Florence a long, admiring look. She could not help being struck with the elegant dress and the eager, passionate, quivering face. "What is it you want, miss?—I'll do anything you wish."

"I want you to go into the green bedroom and ask if Miss Keys is there. If she is, say that I, Florence Aylmer, would like to see her for a few moments."

The servant tripped off at once, and a moment later Bertha joined Florence in the corridor.

"Is there anywhere where we can be alone?" said Florence, clasping Bertha's hand.

"Oh, my dear Flo, how lovely you look! What a charming, charming robe!"

"Don't talk about my dress now, and don't say anything about my looks; I want to speak to you," said Florence.

For a wild moment Bertha Keys felt inclined to say, "It is impossible; I am engaged with my pupils, and cannot give you any of my time," but a glance into Florence's face showed her, as she vulgarly expressed it, "the fat was in the fire," and she had better face the position at once. Accordingly she said coolly, "I can give you two or three minutes, although I cannot imagine what you want to say now. I shall come to see you when it is all over. There is not the slightest doubt that you will win the Scholarship, so rest assured on that head."

"If I thought for a moment there was a doubt do you think I would have acted as I did?" said Florence; "but now that things have come to a crisis I wonder if I greatly care. I——"

"Oh, nonsense, Florence, how would you stand the disgrace? and the clergy school, you know—don't forget, Florence, what it means. Hold up your head, pluck up your courage. What is it you want to say to me?"

"Something—but I must see you alone."

"Let us come along this corridor; there are a great many bedrooms: we will open one on the chance of its being empty."

Bertha seized Florence's hand and began to fly down the corridor with her. She knocked at a door, there was no reply, she opened it.

"There, it is unoccupied," she said; "we will stay here for a minute or two. Come now, what is it?"

"It is this," said Florence; she turned and faced Bertha.

"Bertha Keys," she said, "my mother has told me, and I heard that of you this morning which——"

"That of me, indeed," said Bertha, turning very pale; "what can you have heard of me?"

"I have heard that which shows me your true character. My mother never received those post-office orders. I gave you three sovereigns to change into postoffice orders for my mother, and she—she never had them; she never got any of my letters, she thought me cold, heartless, unfeeling—she, my mother, the one I love best in the world. You, you held back the letters, you kept the money—dare you deny it?"

"Oh, dear, what a fuss!" said Bertha. "But you can act just as you please, Florence; you can go down and tell all about me. Of course, having done so, my career will be ruined."

"What do you mean? What did you do?—speak, speak! Oh, this is driving me mad!"

"Calm yourself, my dear, and stay quiet; I won't attempt to conceal the truth from you. I took the money; I wanted it very badly. Whether I wanted it more badly than your mother is a matter of not the smallest importance to me. I wanted it, and I took it. Let that suffice."

"And what do you think I shall do; do you think I will submit to this sort of thing?"

"You can please yourself. Of course, if you tell about me, I can tell about you. Tit for tat—you quite understand."

"Oh, I quite understand," said Florence.

She sank down on the nearest chair, her face had turned quite grey.

Miss Keys regarded her for a moment silently, then she went up and laid her hand on her shoulder.

"Come, Flo," she said, suddenly dropping on her knees by the unhappy girl's side, "come, cheer up; don't look so miserable. You and I are in the same boat and we must sink or swim together. If you support me I'll support you. I can help you again and again, and think what I am doing for you to-night."

"Oh, I hate myself, I hate myself! I don't think I can go through with it," said Florence.

"Then what do you mean to do?"

"Tell Sir John all before he begins. It is Kitty's Scholarship—not mine; and how—how am I to take it?"

"Now this is utter folly," said Bertha, seriously alarmed at last, for if Florence were to develop a conscience, and a conscience of such a sensitive order, at this hour, all would indeed be lost as far as she was concerned.

"Come," she said, "think what it means. You love your mother; think of her position if you lose; and it was only three pounds, and I promise—there, I promise I'll save it out of my salary; you shall have it back. Oh, don't tell on me; I shall be ruined for ever; don't—don't—don't!"

Bertha clasped her hands, the tears rose to her eyes—a bell was heard in the distance. It was the bell which was to summon the guests, the girls of the school, and the three competitors to the great hall.

"There, I must be going," said Florence, "but I am miserable. My head aches, I doubt if I can go through with this."

"You will feel quite different when you get downstairs," said Bertha, "and now cheer up; only just remember one thing. If you fail me I will fail you, and vice versa."

Florence did not dare to look back at Bertha; she left the room. There was a noise in her ears and a swimming before her eyes.

Bertha stood for a moment, looking after her retreating form.

"I am almost sorry I did not tell her at the time," she said to herself; "when she has accepted the Scholarship I shall be safe; but she has had a shock. There is no saying what a girl of that temperament may do under pressure; but there, I believe the excitement will carry her through, and I don't believe for a moment she has the moral courage to stand the public disgrace which would be hers if she told now. Yes, she is in for it; she must go through with it."

Bertha patted her red hair and drew herself up to her full height, and presently accompanied the pupils down to the great hall, where they took their seats in the places allotted to them; excellent seats from the point of view, for they could see every single thing and were themselves to a certain extent in shadow.

The different guests had assembled, all beautifully dressed. Mrs. Aylmer the great and Mrs. Aylmer the less found themselves side by side. Mrs. Aylmer the great was in a magnificent robe of violet brocade, open at the throat, displaying a quantity of rich lace. On her head glittered diamonds, and her light eyes flashed as she glanced from time to time at Mrs. Aylmer the less.

"Really," she said to herself, "the one drawback in adopting Florence is that most unpleasant little woman. Where did she get that splendid silk from? But what airs she does put on; how vulgar she is!"

Mrs. Aylmer the great did not look particularly happy. She was most anxious to force herself into what she termed county society, and she found up to the present that, although she was the owner of a magnificent place like Aylmer Court, she was not taken much notice of by those people who were, as she expressed it, really in the swim. It was a great feather in her cap to be invited to Cherry Court Park, and if Sir John would only favor her with a little attention she might get more invitations in consequence.

If her niece was the lucky winner of the Scholarship all would undoubtedly go well with Mrs. Aylmer. She would be the aunt, practically the adopted mother, of the heroine, the girl on whom all eyes were fixed, Sir John's special protegee, the Cherry Court School Scholarship girl. She could talk about Florence and her great abilities from time to time, and gently insinuate little hints with regard to the girl's unfortunate position and her great kindness in adopting her. Thus people would think her a most good-natured woman as well as a very rich one, the aunt of a girl of undoubted genius—yes, a great deal might follow in the train of such consequences.

Mrs. Aylmer the less on this occasion had many wild and exciting thoughts with regard to Miss Pratt and the other neighbors at Dawlish, also with regard to Sukey; but still, her thought above all other thoughts was the consciousness that soon her beloved child would be done honor to, and her eyes, silly enough in expression, were now so full of love that many people thought her a good-natured and pleasant-looking woman, and in reality gave her far kinder thoughts than they did to Mrs. Aylmer the great, whose cold face would never shine with any human feeling, and whose motives could be easily read by the proud county folk.

As Florence slowly entered the room, accompanied by Kitty and Mary, a little buzz of applause greeted the three graceful girls as, in their Greek costumes, they glided slowly forward and took their places at the little desks placed for them. Florence for one wild moment glanced at her mother, and the love and longing and delight in the little Mummy's face did more to reconcile her present evil plight than anything else.

"There," she whispered under her breath, "in for a penny, in for a pound. I cannot break the heart of the little Mummy—I can't—I won't."

A peculiar expression stole round her lips, her eyes grew feverishly bright, she looked handsome, and Mrs. Aylmer the great felt justly very proud of her.

"She is tall, her figure is improving every day; she will be a very good-looking girl by and by—what is more, a stylish one," thought Aunt Susan.

But most of the guests scarcely looked at Florence, for their eyes were attracted by the sweet expression, the inimitable grace of Kitty Sharston.

Florence's cheeks were deeply flushed, her eyes so bright that they looked dark as night; but Kitty, equally excited, her heart beating, every nerve highly strung, only showed her excitement by a dewy look in the great big grey eyes, and a wild-rose bloom on the delicate cheeks.

Mary's downright appearance did not attract comment one way or the other. All three were pronounced nice-looking, ladylike girls, and now the guests bent forward to listen to the viva voce examination, which immediately began.



CHAPTER XX.

"THE HILLS FOR EVER."

The examination began and was continued amidst a profound silence on the part of all the spectators. Necks were craned forward and ears were at attention point. When Florence answered a question correctly Mrs. Aylmer the less nodded her little head until the plumes which she wore in her hair quivered all over. Mrs. Aylmer the great bridled and glanced with her cold eyes at the proudest of the county folk, as much as to say, "There's genius for you."

Mary Bateman's father, who sat very near Mrs. Aylmer the less, smiled also when Florence made a correct answer, and looked with sympathy at little Mrs. Aylmer; and when his own child Mary scored a point, as he expressed it, a gratified flush rose to his old cheeks, and he dropped his eyes, not caring to look at the girl whom he loved best in the world.

But when to question after question Kitty Sharston gave a correct reply, the furore and excitement in the breasts of several of the spectators rose to the highest pitch, for Kitty's soft voice, her gentle answers, her correct and lady-like utterances impressed everyone favorably. Then, too, it was an open secret that she was Sir John's favorite; it had been whispered by more than one visitor to another that it was on account of Kitty Sharston that this great fuss had been made, that the Scholarship had been opened to the competition of the school, that the girls were here, that they themselves were here—it was all on account of this slim little girl with the big eyes and the sweet pathetic face; and reminiscences of Sir John and Kitty's father together side by side, shoulder to shoulder, in the trenches before Sebastopol arose in the memory of one or two visitors present.

It was undoubtedly the wish of the guests who were assembled at Cherry Court Park that night that Kitty should be the successful winner. And now there were strong, more than strong hopes that such would be the case, for although Florence's answers were full of spirit and invariably correct, there seemed to those who listened to be a background of substantial knowledge behind Kitty's grave remarks.

Miss Helen Dartmoor sat bolt upright, her lips firmly compressed, and a disapproving expression in her eyes; but Miss Helen Dartmoor did not count. It was Sir John, whose eyes followed his favorite with keener and keener appreciation and admiration; it was Mrs. Clavering; it was also most of the girls themselves, for beyond doubt Kitty was the favorite. If she won the Scholarship it would give universal satisfaction.

And now most of the examination had come to an end. The questions on history had all been answered and duly marked by the patient professors who had come to Cherry Court Park for the great occasion. The girls one by one had approached the piano and played each her trial piece and had sung her trial song, and still it seemed to everyone that Kitty led the van; for her music, although not quite so showy and brilliant as Florence's, was marked with true musical expression, and her song, a sweet old English ballad, came purely and freely from her young lips.

Mary also acquitted herself extremely well in the musical examination, and old Mr. Bateman raised his head and listened with real pleasure as the wild warbling notes of "Annie Laurie" sounded through the old hall.

But at last the supreme test of all arrived. The three girls, Sir John leading the way, approached the central dais. There they stood side by side, their soft Greek draperies falling round their slim young figures. Sir John then stepped to the front and addressed the crowd of eager spectators.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I need not tell you with what intense pleasure I have listened to the spirited answers our three young friends have made to the different questions put to them. The Scholarship, however, has yet to be won—the supreme test is now to be given—the trial essays are now to be read. In order that fair play should above all things be exercised on this important occasion, I have asked my three young friends not to sign their names to the essays they have written. The essays are in three blank envelopes, which now lie before me on the table." Here Sir John touched three envelopes with his hand. "I will proceed to read them aloud, taking them up haphazard, and having no idea myself who the writer of each essay is. I have selected as the subject of the test essay the great and wonderful subject of Heroism, for I feel that such a theme will give scope for the real mind, the real heart, the real soul of the young writer. I will say no more now. After I have read the essays we will retire into the outer hall for two or three minutes, and on our return I shall have the pleasure of declaring on whose head I am to place the crown of bay-leaves."

Sir John paused for a moment, the girls stood close together, they faced the crowd standing at one side of the dais. Florence glanced across the hall. Once again she met her mother's eyes—she saw no one in that intense moment of her young life except the little Mummy, and the love in her mother's eyes once again made her say to herself, "Nothing, nothing, nothing will make me break her heart; I will go through with it—yes, I will go through with it."

Kitty Sharston's clear eyes also gazed across the hall, but she saw no one present—only, far, far away, a lonely man with an iron-grey head, and a face which was the dearest face in all the world to her. She saw this man, and felt that for his sake no effort could be too great. If she won the Scholarship all would indeed be well; but if she failed she could at least be good, she could at least submit. Oh, yes; oh, yes; it would be fearfully hard, but God could give her strength.

As to Mary Bateman, she looked at her father and her father looked at her, and then she held herself erect and said to herself, "I can but fail, and in any case I have done my best."

Just then, the murmurs of applause having died away, Sir John took up the first of the envelopes, opened it, unfolded the sheet of paper which lay within, and commenced to read.

The essay on Heroism which he first read happened to be written by Mary Bateman. It was practical, written in good English, the spelling all correct, and also contained some fairly well-chosen allusions to great heroes of history. The essay was thoughtful, and, although there was little originality in it, the guests listened with marked attention. The reading of the essay occupied exactly ten minutes, for Sir John read it slowly, pausing often to give full weight to the words which he read. He had a beautiful, mellow, perfectly-trained voice, and Mary's somewhat lame utterances could not have sounded to better advantage.

When he had finished the guests applauded, but without any intense enthusiasm. He laid the paper down before him on the table, and then proceeded to read the second essay. This had altogether a different note. The allusions to history were far less numerous, but the heart of the young writer made itself felt. It was the work of an immature mind, but here and there was a delicate touch which pointed to the possibility of future genius. Here and there was a graceful allusion which caused Sir John's own voice to falter, and above all things, through each word there breathed a lofty and noble spirit.

"Only the daughter of a soldier could have written those words," thought Sir John; "surely this must be Kitty's work, and surely no other essay could approach hers."

So he thought, and as he came to the last words his voice rang out clear and full, and when he ceased the applause was great, and Kitty's eyes shone, although she dared not meet anyone, for it was part of the code of honor amongst the three girls that the judges should not guess who had written each individual essay.

Then at last it came to be Florence's turn. Florence had copied Bertha Keys' paper, scarcely taking in its meaning. She had copied it in hot haste, with hot rage, defiance, determination in her heart. She scarcely knew herself what the words meant, she had not taken in their true significance. The essay was a little longer than the others, and began in quite a different way.

Sir John paused for a moment, glanced down the page, then adjusted his glasses, drew himself up very erect and began to read. He had not read one sentence before he perceived that he had now quite different metal to deal with. Although disappointment stormed at his heart, he was too true a gentleman and too brave a soldier to allow such a feeling to influence him even for a moment. Yes, he would do the spirited words with which he had now to deal every justice. So he read on, the fire in the paper communicating itself to him, and the guests who listened soon forgot all about the Scholarship and all about the three young candidates. They were interested in the words themselves; the words rang out; they were not remarkable so much for the heart element as for the strong, proud, intellectual touch.

The essay was rich in metaphor and still richer in quotation. From the Greeks, from the Romans, from the English, from America, from Australia, from all parts of the globe did the young writer cull incident and quotation. She used a brief and telling argument, and she brought it to a successful and logical conclusion. Finally she quoted some words from Tennyson, aptly and splendidly chosen, and when Sir John's voice ceased the entire hall rose up in a body and cheers and acclamations ascended to the roof.

Florence's face was white as death.

Sir John laid down the paper.

"We will now," he said, turning to his fellow-judges, "retire for a few moments to decide on the winner of the Scholarship."

Sir John and the other judges immediately left the hall, and the girls, still standing in that strained and painful position, waited with lowered eyes for the result. Amongst the three, however, all doubt was over. Mary Bateman knew that her poor and lame words had not the slightest chance. Kitty would not have taken the Scholarship even if it had been offered to her. Could Mary have written that brilliant essay? Could it by any possibility be the work of Florence? But whoever had written it deserved the Scholarship, deserved it by every rule which had been laid upon the young competitors.

So she thought, and Florence, who did not dare to meet Bertha's eyes, who did not dare at this moment even to look at her mother, wished with all her heart that the ground might open and swallow her up.

Could she take this undeserved honor? The words were crowding to her lips, "Oh, don't, for heaven's sake, give it to me; I could never have written it," but she did not speak the words.

Just then there was a pause amongst the crowd of spectators, and Sir John and the other judges returned. The judges sat down in their seats and Sir John came slowly forward. His face was very white.

"The examination for the Cherry Court School Scholarship is over," he began. "With one accord we have adjudged the prize. The three young competitors have all done admirably. The questions have been so universally well answered that there would have been a difficulty in giving the prize to any one when all three so very nearly had earned it, were it not for the trial essay; but the trial essay has removed all doubt. The Scholarship, by every test of learning, of high endeavor, of noble thought, belongs to the girl whose motto on her paper has been 'The Hills for Ever.' She has indeed gone to the hills for her breezy thoughts, for her noble and winged words. May she to the longest day she lives retain all that she now feels, and go on truly from strength to strength. The names of the competitors are not attached to the essays, therefore I must request the girl who has adopted the motto, 'The Hills for Ever,' to come forward, for she is the winner of the Scholarship."

Sir John paused and looked down the room. He did not dare to glance at Kitty, for he knew only too well that, clever and sweet as she was, she had not written those words.

There was a dead silence. Mary Bateman looked at Florence—Kitty also looked at her. They felt sure she had written the splendid essay, and they wondered at her silence. She remained quite still for a moment.

"Miss Bateman, is this your essay?" said Sir John, holding up the paper to Mary.

Mary shook her head and fell back.

"Catherine Sharston, is this yours?" again said Sir John.

Kitty bent her head low in denial.

"Then Miss Aylmer—what is the matter, Miss Aylmer?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," said Florence. She gave one wild glance in the direction of Bertha Keys, but Bertha was too wise to meet Florence's eyes just then.

"She feels it, but she must go through with it," thought the pupil teacher. "I did not know that I had such genius, but I shall never doubt my own power in the future. Is she indeed mean enough to take my work and claim it as her own? Of course she is; it would be fatal to me if she did otherwise."

As Florence slowly, very slowly, as if each step was weighted with lead, crept forward to the front of the dais without any of that look of triumph and pleasure which ought to have marked her face at such a moment, Bertha Keys threw back her own head and allowed her watchful light blue eyes to follow the girl, while a smile of sardonic import curled her lips.

When Florence got opposite Sir John she suddenly, as if overpowered by intense emotion, fell on her knees. She could not have done anything which would more completely bring down the house. Cheers, acclamations, hurrahs, every sort of congratulation filled the air. When they had subsided for a moment and Mrs. Aylmer the less had released the hand of Mrs. Aylmer the great, which she had clutched frantically in her intense agitation, Sir John took Florence's hand and with a slight motion raised her to her feet.

"Stand up, Florence Aylmer," he said; "you have done splendidly; I congratulate you. The Scholarship is yours, nobly won, splendidly won. Take your honors, my dear."

As he spoke he stepped to the table and brought back a small crown of filigree silver. It was a simple wreath in the form of bay-leaves. He laid it on Florence's dark head.

"This is yours," he said; "wear it with dignity; keep the great, the good, the true always before you. And this also is yours," he said. He slipped a thin gold chain with the ruby locket attached round Florence's neck. He then placed the purse which contained the Scholarship money for the ensuing year, and the parchment scroll, in her hand. "And now, young people," he said, "let us all cheer three times the winner of the Scholarship."

The girls cheered as lustily as schoolboys, the band in the corner burst forth with the gay strains of "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and after a brief signal from Sir John there was suddenly heard outside the report of a small cannon, which was the intimation that the bonfires were to be lit.

"Florence, Florence, come here!" said her mother, and Florence ran across the hall and buried her face in her mother's lap.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE STING OF THE SERPENT.

The day was over, the long, exciting, exhausting evening had come to an end. The girls had danced to their hearts' content, had played and romped, and congratulated Florence with all the heartiness of which their frank natures were capable. They had wandered through the grounds in groups to watch the bonfires, they had partaken of the most delicious supper the heart of girl could conceive, and at last, worn out and intensely happy, they had retired to rest.

Three long dormitories had been fitted up for their occupation, but the lucky three had each a very small room to herself. Florence was glad of that. Yes, if she could be glad of anything on that awful, terrible evening, it was the knowledge that she might be alone, all alone for some hours. During those hours she could think, could collect her thoughts, could face the position which she had in future to occupy.

In the pleasure and delight of the evening no one had specially noticed how little Florence spoke. Mrs. Aylmer the less, as the mother of the heroine, minced about with her head in the air, so elated, so excited, so carried out of herself, that not the grandest county lady present had power to awe her.

"Yes, I am the mother of the dear child. Oh, I always knew that she was specially gifted," Mrs. Aylmer was heard to say. "She could learn from the time she was a baby in the most marvellous way, but even I was astonished at her essay; it wrung tears from my eyes."

"It was a very noble work," said the Countess of Archester, slightly bowing her own queenly head, and giving Mrs. Aylmer a half-quizzical, half-pitying glance. "How the girl wrote it, how that woman's daughter could have written such an essay, is a puzzle to me," said the Countess afterwards to her husband.

But Mrs. Aylmer was unconscious that any such remarks were uttered. She was thinking of her own dazzling future, of what Dawlish would mean to her in the time to come, of what Sukey would say, what Ann Pratt would say, what other neighbors would say. All was indeed well; she was the mother of a genius, a girl who had achieved such high honor that her name in future would always be remembered in the neighborhood of Cherry Court School. Yes, it was a proud moment for Mrs. Aylmer, quite the proudest in her life. It is true that Florence had said very little to her mother, that Florence had scarcely responded to Mrs. Aylmer when she had flung her arms round her neck, and pressed up close to her, and looked into her eyes, and said, "My darling! oh, my darling, my sweet, precious daughter, how proud your Mummy is of you!"

Florence had turned away just then, and Mrs. Aylmer had felt that her daughter's hand trembled as it lay for a moment in hers.

But Mrs. Aylmer the great was even more remarkable in her conduct than Mrs. Aylmer the less. She had called Florence to her, and before all the assembled guests had kissed her solemnly.

"You are my daughter henceforth," she said, "my adopted daughter. Not a word, Mabel; this girl belongs to me in the future."

And just then the queerest pang of jealousy had rushed through the heart of Mrs. Aylmer the less, for was it possible that Susan really meant to take her child from her altogether? Was Florence henceforward to be considered by the world as the daughter of Mrs. Aylmer the great? Was she, her real mother, the mother who had nursed her as a baby, who had put up with her childish troubles, to have nothing whatever to do with her in the future? Notwithstanding that crown of glory which seemed to quiver over the forehead of the little widow, she did not like this aspect of the question. She felt she could scarcely stand it. If Susan meant to have the child, then indeed the Scholarship would present a very serious drawback to the mind of Mrs. Aylmer.

Mrs. Aylmer the great, however, now pushed herself quite into the forefront of the county society. It was impossible to suppress her; she was past suppressing. Sir John himself took her into the great hall where supper was laid. She sat by his side during that auspicious meal, and when he talked of Florence she boldly told him that a golden future lay before the girl.

"It is a pity," was his reply, "that being the case, that Miss Aylmer should have got the Scholarship, for whether she got it or not, being your niece, she would of course have been well educated. The Scholarship money would have done more good to a poorer girl"—and here Sir John had quickly to suppress a sigh, for was he not thinking of Kitty—Kitty, who had never looked sweeter than during this evening of defeat, who had never, never been nearer to his heart?

Mrs. Aylmer the great looked at him in some astonishment.

"I am surprised," she said; "it almost sounds as if you——"

"As if I grudged the Scholarship to your niece; far from that," he answered; "she is a remarkable girl; any girl who could write that essay possesses genius. She will be heard of in the future."

Then the heart of Mrs. Aylmer the great swelled within her, and she absolutely loved her niece Florence.

But now the day was over and Florence was alone in her room. The door was closed; her mother's last kiss and blessing had been given. Mrs. Aylmer the great had solemnly embraced Florence also, had given her to understand that there was no request which she would not grant, and then the tired girl had been left alone.

She went to the door of her room and locked it, then she stood for a moment in the centre of the floor. There was a large mirror fastened to one of the walls, and Florence could see her own reflection in it. She glanced at it for a moment in a puzzled way, a solitary young figure, tall and well proportioned, a head of dark hair, eyes very bright, a face somewhat pale now from excessive emotion, pathetic lines round the mouth. On the head shone the silver crown of bay-leaves, the Greek dress fell away from the graceful figure, on the neck gleamed the wonderful locket with its dazzling ruby. The light from a large lamp fell upon this ruby and caused it to gleam brightly. Florence went nearer to the mirror and looked into it. The fire from the heart of the ruby seemed to leap out. She hastily unfastened the gold chain from her neck and held the locket in her hand. The ruby with its heart of fire seemed now to the excited girl to possess an evil eye which could see through her. She felt that she hated it, she trembled a little, she hastily unlocked a drawer and thrust in the ruby locket and chain. She then removed the silver wreath of bay-leaves and put it also in the drawer with the ruby. Then she clasped her hands above her head and looked earnestly into her own face. Well she knew in that moment of bitter triumph what had happened to her.

"I am made for life," she said at last slowly, aloud; "all the good things of life can in the future be mine—all the wealth, all the glory, to a great extent also the love."

But when Florence thought of the love she paused; for she remembered her mother. Did anyone in all the world love her as the little Mummy loved her? In the future she knew well that she should see very little of her mother. Aunt Susan would not permit it for a moment; she might see her occasionally, but never again would they meet as child and mother. There would be a gulf between them, the gulf which ever and always separates the rich from the poor. For Florence henceforth would belong to the rich ones of the earth. Mrs. Aylmer the great was so pleased, so elated, so triumphant at her marked and brilliant success that there was nothing she would not do for her. Yes, Florence's future life was secure, she was fortunate, the world lay at her feet, her fortune was made.

She sat down on a low chair.

"It is all before me," she muttered, "the riches, the honor, the glory. I shall also, if I am dressed well, be beautiful. Mine is the sort of face that requires good decoration; mine is the figure which needs the best clothes. I shall have everything, everything. I ought to be happy; I wonder I am not. I ought to be very happy. Oh, I wish this fire did not burn in my heart, and that horrid, scorching, intolerable feeling, I wish it did not consume me. Oh, I suppose I shall get over it in time; and if life lasted forever I should be the happiest girl in the world; but of course it won't—nothing lasts forever, for age comes even to the youngest, and then—then there is illness and—and perhaps death. And I may not even live to be old. Rich and lucky and fortunate as I am, I may die. I should not like to die a bit—not a bit; I should not be prepared for the other world. Oh, I must shut away the thought, for there is no going back now."

Just at this point in her meditations there came a knock at her door. Florence started when she heard the sound. She wished that she had thought of putting out the candle. She could not bear to feel that anyone was coming to see her to-night. Her mother?—she dared not meet her mother alone; she would be prepared in the morning, but she could not meet her mother's searching glance just now.

She did not reply at all to the first knock, but the light from the candle streamed out under the door, and the knock was repeated, and now it was more insistent, and a voice said:

"It is only me, Florence; it is only me; let me come in."

Florence shuddered and turned very pale. She knew the voice: it was the voice of Bertha Keys. If there was anyone in all the wide world whom she would most dread to meet on that unhappy night it was Bertha Keys, the girl who knew her secret. There was no help for it, however.

With a shudder Florence arose, crossed the room, unlocked the door, and flung it open.

"I am so tired, Bertha," she said; "must you see me to-night?"

"I am sorry you are tired," replied Bertha, "but I must see you to-night."

Bertha slowly entered the room. When Florence shut the door Bertha turned the key in the lock.

"What are you doing that for?" said Florence.

"Because I do not wish to be interrupted; I want to see you alone."

"But I wish you would not lock the door; it is quite unnecessary—no one will come here at present."

"I make certainty sure—that is all," said Bertha. "Don't fuss about the lock. Now, then, Florence, I want to have a straight talk with you; you understand?"

"I suppose I do; but I don't think I can comprehend anything to-night."

"Oh, yes, you can, you certainly can; you must pull yourself together. You went through that ordeal very well, let me tell you. How do you feel now?"

"Miserable," said Florence.

Bertha went up close to her, sat down by her, and, suddenly putting her hand under Florence's chin, raised her face, and looked into her eyes.

"Bah!" she said, "it was a pity I did it for you; you are not worth it."

"What do you mean?" said Florence, turning pale.

"Because you are not; I don't believe you'll go through with it even now. Bah! such glory, such honor, such a proud moment, and to say you are miserable! May I ask what you are miserable about?"

"Because I have sacrificed my honor; because I am the meanest, most horrid girl on God's earth," said Florence, with passion. "Because the Scholarship so won turns to dust and ashes in my mouth. Because—because of Kitty, little Kitty, who wanted really what I have so basely taken from her. Oh, I hate myself and I hate you, Bertha. Why did I ever meet you?"

Florence was past tears, a dry sob rose in her throat, it half choked her for a moment, then she stood up and wrung her hands.

"Go away, please, Bertha; leave me now; I cannot have you."

"You can put things right, of course, according to your idea of right," said Bertha, in a sulky voice; "you can go to Sir John and tell him what has happened; you can do that if you please."

"I cannot—you know I cannot."

"I certainly do know you cannot," said Bertha. "Well, now, my dear, we will leave off heroics; it is all very fine for you to talk of your conscience, but I don't think that little monitor within is of a very active turn of mind. If he were he would have absolutely at the first idea shunted off the evil proposal which I happened to make to you. You would never have yielded to the temptation. Think just for a moment: would Kitty Sharston have done this thing?"

"Of course not; why do you ask?"

"Think again, would Mary Bateman have done this thing?"

"Again, why do you ask?"

"My dear Florence, I ask in order to reassure you that, sensitive and keen as you think your little inward monitor, it is at best but a poor weakling. Now, the conscience of Kitty and the conscience of Mary would have risen up in hot protest, and the temptation would not have been a temptation to them, but it was to you because of the poor health of your little monitor. Believe me, the monitor is in a bad way, and if you will struggle through the remorse of the next couple of days it will simply die."

"And then I shall be lost," said Florence, with a frightened look in her face.

"Oh, you will live a very comfortable life if you take care of your health; you have a good sixty years before you. You can do a good deal in sixty years, and now for goodness' sake stop talking about the matter. It is done and cannot be undone. I want to say something to you myself."

"But at the end of sixty years I shall die all the same," said Florence. "Oh, Bertha, I go mad when I think of dying. Oh, Bertha! Bertha!"

Even Bertha felt a momentary sense of terror when she looked into Florence's eyes. She backed away from her and stood by the table.

"Come, come, my dear," she said, "you'll get over all this," but still she avoided looking at Florence's eyes.

"What do you want with me?" said Florence at last, restlessly; "I must sleep. I wish you would go away."

"I will when I have made my request."

"What is that?"

"I want you to give me twenty pounds."

"Twenty pounds! Why, you know I have not got it."

"Practically you have, and I want it. I want it early to-morrow morning."

"Now, Bertha, you must be mad."

"Not at all; I am abundantly sane. That essay which so excited the spectators to-night was worth twenty pounds. I mean you to buy it from me, and those are my terms."

"You know I cannot. I cannot imagine what you mean by coming to me in this fashion."

"Without twenty pounds I shall be undone," said Bertha; "I need it to pay some debts. If the debts are not paid I shall be exposed, and if I go under, you, my pretty Florence, go under, too—understand that, please. Twenty pounds is cheap at the price, is it not?"

"But I have not got it, Bertha; I would give it you, but I cannot. You might as well ask me for my right hand."

"I tell you the great Mrs. Aylmer will do anything for her pretty and gifted niece. Ask her for the money to-morrow."

"For you?"

"By no means—for yourself."

"Bertha, I simply cannot."

"All right," said Bertha. "I give you until to-morrow at noon to decide. If by that time I have twenty pounds in my hand all right, your secret is respected and no catastrophe will happen, and your frightful deceit will never be found out. Only one person will know it, and that is I. But if you do not give me the twenty pounds I shall myself go to Mrs. Clavering and tell her everything. I shall be sorry; the consequences will be very disagreeable for me; I cannot even say if I shall quite escape the punishment of the law, but I expect I shall. In any case, you will be done for, my pretty Florence; your career will be over. Think of that; think of the little Mummy, as you call her, without the great Scholarship to back you up—think what it means."

"I do, I do; the only one I do think of at the present moment is my mother," said Florence. "When I think of her it gives me agony. But, Bertha, I cannot get that twenty pounds."

"You can; make an excuse to your Aunt Susan to obtain it. Now, my dear, you know why I have come to you; I will not trouble you any further. The twenty pounds at noon to-morrow, or you know the consequences." Bertha waved her hand with a light air, kissed the slim little figure in its Greek dress, then she opened the door and went out.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE VOICE OF GOD.

After Bertha had left her, Florence sat in a stunned attitude. She was just rising slowly from her chair when there came a knock a second time at the door. This time Florence had not even a moment to say "Come in." The door was softly opened, and the fair, sweet face of Kitty peeped round it.

"Ah! I thought you were not in bed," she said; "I came to see you just for a minute to wish you good-night."

"I wish you had not come," said Florence. She looked so pale and frightened that Kitty glanced at her aghast.

"I came," said Kitty Sharston, "because I thought you ought to know that Mary and I"—she paused to swallow something in her throat. Kitty had suffered that night and had hidden her suffering; she did not want Florence to think that she had gone through any great time of sorrow. She looked at Florence attentively. "Mary Bateman and I agreed that I could come and tell you, Flo, how pleased—yes, how pleased we are that you have got the Scholarship, for you won it so nobly, Florence—no one could grudge it to you for a minute."

"Do you really mean that?" said Florence, eagerly. She went up to Kitty and seized both her hands.

"Why, how hot your hands feel, and, oh, please do not squeeze me quite so tightly," said Kitty, starting back a step.

Florence snatched away her hand. "If you knew me," said Florence; "if you knew me!"

"I do know you," said Kitty. "Oh, Flo—Tommy, dear—let me call you by the old name just for once—we are all so proud of you, we are really. I thought perhaps you would be a little uncomfortable thinking of me and of Mary, but we don't mind—we don't really. You see, we hadn't a chance, not a chance against genius like yours. We never guessed that you had such great genius, and it took us slightly by surprise; but of course we are glad, awfully glad, and perhaps Sir John will offer the Scholarship another year, and perhaps I will try then and—and succeed. But no one else had a chance with you, Florence, and we are glad for you, very glad."

"But you—what will you do? I know this means a great deal to you."

"I shall go away with Helen Dartmoor; I don't feel unhappy, not at all. I am sure Sir John will be my friend, and perhaps I may try for the Scholarship even though I am staying with Helen Dartmoor; I just came to tell you. Good-night, Florence, good-night. Mary and I love you; we'll always love you; we'll always be proud of you. Good-night, Florence."

Kitty ran up to her companion, kissed her hastily, and ran to the door. She had reached it, had opened the door and gone out, when Florence called her. Florence spoke her name faintly.

"Kitty, Kitty, come back."

But Kitty did not hear. She shut the door and ran down the passage, her steps sounding fainter, until Florence could hear them no longer. Then Florence Aylmer fell on her knees, and the tears which all this time had lain like a dead weight against her eyeballs, were loosened, and she sobbed as she had never sobbed before in all her life. Exhausted by her tears, she threw herself on her bed and, dressed as she was, sank into heavy slumber.

It was very early in the morning when she awoke. It was not yet five o'clock. Florence struck a light and saw by the little clock on the mantelpiece that the hands pointed to a quarter to five.

"There is time," she thought, eagerly. She sat up on her elbow and reflected. Her eyes were bright, her face paler than ever. Presently she got out of bed and fell on her knees; she pressed her face against the side of the bed, and it is doubtful whether many words came to her, but when she rose at last she seemed to hear an inward voice, and the voice was saying, "Refuse the Evil and choose the Good."

The voice kept on saying, "Refuse the Evil and choose the Good," and Florence felt more and more frightened, and more and more intensely anxious to do something in great haste before she had time for reflection.

She lit the candles and put them on the writing-table at the foot of the bed, and then she sat by the writing-table and pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write. She wrote rapidly, with scarcely a pause. Whenever she stopped the voice kept saying louder and clearer, louder and clearer, "Refuse the Evil and choose the Good."

Florence went on writing. At last she had finished. She folded up the sheet of paper and put it into an envelope. Then she hastily opened the drawer which contained the silver wreath and the ruby locket and the purse of gold and the parchment scroll. She collected them hastily, scarcely glancing at them, wrapped up in tissue-paper, then in brown, tied the little parcel with string, slipped the note inside the string and laid it on the table.

The voice which kept speaking to her was now quieter; it ceased to say, "Refuse the Evil," but once again through the silent room she seemed to hear the echo of the words, calm, great, all knowing, "Choose the Good, choose the Good," and then she hastily, very hastily got into her clothes, for it seemed to her that there was nothing else worth while in all the world but the following, the obeying of this voice. To choose the Good was greater than to choose Happiness, greater than to choose Ambition, greater than to choose Wealth. It was the only thing.

So she dressed herself in her everyday clothes, and, taking the little parcel, she softly unfastened the door, and then she slipped down through the silent house and entered Sir John Wallis's study, and laid the packet which contained all the symbols of her success and her letter of confession on his desk. Having done this, she turned away, came upstairs softly, and, going down another corridor, opened the door of her mother's room and went in.

Mrs. Aylmer was lying sound asleep; it was not yet six o'clock. She was very tired and she was sleeping heavily; she was enjoying pleasant dreams in her sleep, dreams of Florence, her dear, her darling, the success Florence had won, the happy future which lay before her.

Mrs. Aylmer's dreams were all one glow of great bliss, and in the midst of them she felt a cold, small hand laid upon her own, and, opening her eyes, she saw Florence bending over her.

"Mummy," said Florence, "I want you to get up at once."

"My dear, dear child, what can be the matter?" said Mrs. Aylmer the less. She started up in bed, rubbed her sleepy eyes and stared at her daughter. "What is it, Flo?"

"I cannot tell you just yet, mother, but I want you, if ever, ever in the whole course of your life you really loved me, to stand by me now. Something fearful has happened, mother dear, and I cannot tell you at present, but I want you to help me. I want to go back to Dawlish with you; I want to go back by the very first train this morning with you alone, Mummy; I will tell you on the way home what has happened, and then—but I cannot say any more; only come, mother, come. No one else would stand by me—but you will, won't you?"

"You frighten me dreadfully, Florence," said Mrs. Aylmer; "I cannot imagine what you are talking about. Have you lost your reason, my poor darling? Has this great, great triumph turned your brain? Oh, my child, my child!"

"No, mother," said poor Florence, "I am quite sane; I have not lost my reason. On the contrary, I think I have got it back again; I never felt saner than I do now, but—but you must help me, and there is no time to lose. I have done what I could; you must come away with me, mother, and we must go at once. I have looked up the trains. I'll go myself and wake up one of the servants and get a trap ordered, and we will go. Have you got a little money—that's the main thing?"

"I have got five pounds left out of Sir John's cheque."

"Then that will be splendid. I only want just enough to get back to Dawlish, to the little old house and to you. Oh, come, Mummy! oh, come!"

Florence's words were very brave and very insistent, and Mrs. Aylmer roused herself. She got out of bed, feeling a dull wonder stealing over her. Florence now took the command, and hastened her mother into her clothes, and herself packed her mother's things.

"Oh, my dear child, my best dress! don't let it get crushed," said the little widow.

Florence's trembling hands smoothed out the rich folds, she placed the dress in the top of the trunk, and before half-past six that morning Mrs. Aylmer was dressed and her things packed.

Then Florence went down again through the house and awoke one of the servants, and got her to wake a groom, who put a horse to a trap and brought it round to a side door, and so it came to pass that before seven o'clock that morning Mrs. Aylmer and Florence had left Cherry Court Park forever.

When they got into the train poor Mrs. Aylmer turned to Florence and begged for an explanation.

"I guess something dreadful has happened, but I can't imagine what it is," she said. "What does this mean, Florence?"

"It means, Mummy," said Florence, "that I have done that which no one but a mother would forgive. Listen, and I will tell you."

And then she told the whole story, from the very beginning, and Mrs. Aylmer listened with a cold feeling at her heart, and at first a great anger there; but when the story was finished, and Florence timidly took her mother's hands and looked into her eyes and said, "Are you a true enough mother to love me through it all?" then little Mrs. Aylmer's heart melted, and she flung her arms round Florence's neck and whispered through her sobs, "Oh, my child! oh, my child! I had a dreadful feeling last night when your Aunt Susan said that you were my daughter no longer; but this—this gives you to me forever."

"Of course it does, Mummy; Aunt Susan will never speak to me again. Oh, Mummy, what it is to have you! What should I do without you now?"

* * * * *

The rest of this story can be told in a few words. It would be impossible to depict the astonishment, the consternation, the amazement which Sir John felt when he read poor Florence's confession. After thinking matters over a short time, he sent for Mrs. Clavering, and he and that good woman had a long conference together. The upshot of it was that the guests were allowed to depart without knowing what had really happened, Sir John saying that he would write to them afterwards.

Bertha Keys was sent for, severely reprimanded, and dismissed from her post with ignominy. She never returned to Cherry Court School, leaving Cherry Court Park for a distant part of the country that very day. This history has nothing further to do with her. Whether she succeeded in the future or whether she failed, whether she turned from the evil of her ways or not, must all be matters of conjecture.

The main fact which concerns us is the following: Kitty won the Scholarship, after all, for the very next day Sir John visited Cherry Court School and told the bare outline of poor Florence's sin and confession. To Kitty was given the purse of gold, and the ruby locket, the crown of bay-leaves and the parchment scroll. They were given to a very sad Kitty, for the thought of Florence's sin completely overpowered both her and Mary Bateman, and indeed every girl in the school.

Sir John returned to his own house a sadder and a wiser man.

"After all, did I do right to offer this great temptation?" he said to himself, and this thought so affected him, and occurred to him so often, that a week later he went down to Dawlish and had an interview with Mrs. Aylmer and Florence, and the result was that Florence was sent to a good school and had a chance of educating herself. She was not too proud to take this help from Sir John, for it relieved her from all claims on her Aunt Susan in the future.

As to Mrs. Aylmer the great, never from the day when Sir John, in a few words, told her what her niece had done, has that worthy woman mentioned the name, Florence Aylmer. She still gives Mrs. Aylmer her fifty pounds a year, but, as she herself declared it, "I have washed my hands of that wicked girl once and forever."



THE END.