"I have not a penny to give you to start with, you understand that."

"I have a little money," said Florence, and her face coloured and then turned pale: "I think I can manage."

"I wonder how," thought the widow. She glanced at Florence, but did not speak: a shrewd expression came into her eyes and she pursed up her lips.

"I will go and coax Sukey to make a cup of coffee for you," she said: "there is nothing like really strong coffee as a cure for a headache, and you can have some bread-and-butter. I am sorry to say I can afford nothing else for your dinner to-day."

"Oh, coffee and bread-and-butter will do splendidly," said Florence.

Her mother left the room. A moment later Kitty came down.

"Flo," she said, "I have just received a letter from father; he will reach Southampton to-morrow and I am to go and meet him there. Won't you come too?"

"Oh, may I go with you?" said Florence, sensibly brightening.

"May you? Of course you may; it will be so splendid to see him again, and you must constantly stay with me—constantly, Flo dear. Oh, I am so happy, so happy!"



CHAPTER XI.

FLORENCE'S GOOD ANGEL.

"What is the matter, Flo?" said Kitty. The two girls were in their tiny bed-room. They were to leave Dawlish the next morning, as Kitty had persuaded Florence to go with her to Southampton in order that they might both be present when Colonel Sharston once more set foot on his native land.

Kitty was very much excited, but she was too gentle and noble a girl, too absolutely unselfish, not to notice that her companion was distrait and anxious. No one could be much more worried than poor Florence was that evening.

All during the long day which had followed she had kept saying to herself: "Shall I or shall I not? Shall I take that fifty pounds from Bertha and put myself in her power for ever, or shall I return her the money, fight my way to fortune with the weapons which God has given me, and not descend to her temptations?"

One moment Florence had almost made up her mind to choose the right path, but the next instant the thought of the struggle which lay before her and the terrible adventures which any girl must meet who fights the world without money rose to weaken her resolve. It would be so easy to accept that fifty pounds, and Bertha would scarcely dare to ask her to repay it. She would at least have plenty of time to collect the money bit by bit, and so return it to Bertha; but Florence knew well that if once she took that money she would lower herself forever in the moral scale.

"I should sink again to that sort of awful thing I was just before my great temptation at Cherry Court School," she thought. "I have managed to rise above that level now, and am I going to sink again?"

So she wavered all day long, the pendulum of her mind now swinging to one side, now to another. The result was that she felt quite worn out when night came.

"What is it?" said Kitty. "What is worrying you?"

"Oh, never mind," answered Florence. The tears rose to her eyes, she pressed her hands for a moment to her face, then she said abruptly: "Don't ask me."

"I will ask you. I have seen all day that you are wretched; you must tell me what has gone wrong with you."

"I am tempted, that is all," said Florence.

"Then do not yield to the temptation," was Kitty's answer; "if it is something you would rather not say to me——"

"No, Kitty, I must not tell you, but I am tempted strongly," answered Florence.

"The only thing to do, however hard the temptation, is not to yield to it," said Kitty.

Florence looked for a moment at her companion. Kitty, too, had known what it was to want for money. Kitty had been poor. It is true that, since the day she took the prize which Florence through deceit had lost, her kind friend, Sir John Wallis, had never ceased to shower small benefits upon her. She was not only his pet, but almost his idol. In his heart of hearts he felt that he would like to adopt her, but he did not dare even to suggest such a thing, knowing how passionately she was attached to her father.

Now Colonel Sharston was returning to England, having been appointed to an excellent home post, and Kitty's money troubles were quite at an end.

"She will want for nothing in the future," thought Florence to herself as she looked at the graceful figure and bright beautiful face of the young girl who was standing a short distance away. "She will want for nothing: she will never know the real heartache of those who have to earn their daily bread. How can she understand?"

"Why are you looking at me like that, Flo?" said Kitty.

"Oh, I don't know; I don't know. I—sometimes I envy you. You have rich and powerful friends."

"Then it is money: I thought as much," said Kitty. "Listen to me, Florence. I am sure I can guess what is troubling you. That dreadful Bertha wants to bribe you to be silent: she has offered you money."

Florence's face turned quite pale.

"Give it back to her; you shall, you must! I know father will help you when he comes back. I will speak to him. You must not yield, Flo; you must not."

Florence stood irresolute.

"It is not too late," said Kitty. "We are both leaving here early in the morning. Has she sent you any money now?"

"Yes," said Florence. Her voice scarcely rose to a whisper. The word trembled on her lips.

"Then we will return it to her. You must not take it."

"It is too late: I have taken it."

"It is not too late. What is the time? It is only half-past ten. I am quite certain that Miss Keys is not in bed yet. Come, Flo, put on your hat; your mother won't mind. We will take the latchkey and let ourselves in. We will go to the hotel and return the money."

"Oh, I dare not."

"Then I dare," said Kitty. "You have told me nothing, remember; but I will not let you sink or yield to this temptation."

Florence colored crimson.

"You have a great power over me," she said; "I feel as if you were my good angel, and Bertha were my bad."

"Then for heaven's sake, Florence, yield to the entreaties of your good angel. Come, come; the hotel won't be shut up. Where is the money?"

"In my pocket."

"Then come immediately."

Florence was inspired by Kitty, whose voice was strong, and her face brave and bright, as befitted one who lived for the right and rejected the wrong.

"I am glad," she said to herself; "I did not ask her counsel: she has forced it upon me. She is my good angel."

A moment later the two girls left the cottage. They walked quickly in the direction of the big hotel. There were lights in many rooms, servants walking about, and the hall-door was open. They walked up the steps, and Kitty entered the hall. Florence followed her, pale and trembling.

"Can I see Miss Keys?" asked Kitty of the hall porter.

"I will enquire if Miss Keys is up still," replied the man. "What name shall I say?"

"Miss Sharston. I want to see her for a moment about something important."

"Will you come in, Miss?"

"No; perhaps she would see me here. Say also that Miss Florence Aylmer is with me."

The man withdrew. A moment later, Bertha, in her evening dress, looking pretty and excited, ran downstairs.

"What is it? What's the matter?" she said. "Is that you, Florence? Kitty, what is the matter?"

"We don't want to stay; we don't want you to tell Mrs. Aylmer, and we don't want to get you into trouble of any sort," said Kitty, speaking rapidly and drawing Bertha aside as she spoke. "But we want to give you this back, and to let you know that what you suggested was impossible—quite impossible."

As she spoke, she thrust the little packet which contained the fifty pounds into Bertha's hand, and then took Florence's.

"Come, Flo; I think that is all," she said.

Bertha was too stunned to say a word. Before she had recovered from her astonishment, the two girls had walked down the steps and gone out into the night.

"What does this mean?" said Bertha to herself. "I don't like it at all, but, thank goodness, we are leaving here to-morrow. I don't suppose Florence will really tell on me. I must discover some other way to get her into my power."

She went slowly back to the sitting-room. Mrs. Aylmer looked up discontentedly.

"Who called to see you? I didn't know you had any friends in the town, Bertha?" she said.

"Nor have I, but a couple of young girls who are staying here called to return me a little packet which I had dropped on the beach to-day and lost. They found it; my name was on it, and they brought it back to me."

"Oh, indeed; I thought I heard the waiter say that Miss Florence Aylmer had called."

"You were mistaken, Mrs. Aylmer," replied Bertha, in her calm voice. She fixed her grey-green eyes on the widow's face, and took up the book which she had been reading.

"Shall we go on with this, or shall we have a game of two-handed patience?" she said quietly.

"I will go to bed," said Mrs. Aylmer; "I am tired and cross. After all, my life is very dull. You didn't manage to amuse me to-day, Bertha; you were not like your old self; and then I miss Maurice. He has become almost indispensable to me. I hope he will return to-morrow."

"We shall probably find him before us at Aylmer's Court."

"I shall send him a telegram the first thing to-morrow to ask him to hurry home," said Mrs. Aylmer. "He is such a pleasant, bright fellow that life is insupportable without him. You used to be much more amusing than you are now, Bertha. Is anything the matter?"

"Nothing, my dear friend," said Bertha. She looked full at Mrs. Aylmer, and tears rose slowly to her eyes. Now, no one could possess a more pathetic face than Bertha when she pleased. Mrs. Aylmer was not a good-natured woman, she was not kind-hearted, she was not in any sense of the word amiable, but she had certain sentiments, and Bertha managed to arouse them. When she saw tears in her young companion's eyes now, she laid her hand on her arm.

"What is it, dear? I should be sorry to be cross with you. You are a very good girl and suit me admirably."

"It was just the fear that I was not quite suiting you that was troubling me," replied Bertha. "Say that again, kind, dear benefactress, and you will make me the happiest girl in the world."

"No one ever suited me so well. You are surely not jealous of my affection for dear Maurice?"

"Oh, no; I love him myself," said Bertha.

Mrs. Aylmer looked grave. She rose slowly.

"Ring for my maid, will you, Bertha? I shall go to bed; I am tired," said the great lady.

The maid appeared a moment later, and the two left the room together. As Mrs. Aylmer slowly undressed, she thought of Bertha's last words: "I love him myself."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Aylmer to herself; "she is ten years his senior if she's a day; nevertheless, I must be careful. She is a clever woman; I should be sorry to have to do without her, but I often wonder what her past was. I made very few enquiries with regard to her history. I wanted someone to be with me at the time, and she took my fancy."

Downstairs Bertha slowly unfastened the little parcel and looked at the five ten-pound notes which were rolled up within.

"After all, it's just as well that I should have this money by me as that I should give it to Florence Aylmer," she said to herself. "I must think of some other way to tempt her, and the money will be useful. I shall put it back into the post-office and wait awhile. She is certain to go to London, and equally certain to fail. I can tempt her with some of my stories. I will manage to get her address. Yes, clever as you think yourself, Florence, you will be in my power, and before many weeks are over."



CHAPTER XII.

ALONE IN LONDON.

Florence and Kitty left Dawlish the next day and went to Southampton. There they met Colonel Sharston, and Florence had the great bliss of seeing Kitty's intense happiness with her father. They stayed at a hotel at Southampton for the best part of a week, and then the three went to London. Kitty and her father were going to Switzerland for a month's holiday. They begged of Florence to go with them, but nothing would induce her to accept the invitation.

"I know well that Colonel Sharston even now is far from rich," she said to herself. "I will not let Kitty feel that I have put myself upon her."

So very firmly she declined the invitation, and one short week after she had bidden her mother good bye at Dawlish she found herself alone in London. She had seen Kitty and Colonel Sharston off by the night train to Dover, and left the great railway-station slowly and sadly.

"Now I have to fight the battle. Shall I fail or shall I succeed?" she said to herself.

She had taken a bed-room in a large house which was let out in small rooms. It was one of the first houses that had been let out in flats for women in London, and Florence considered herself very fortunate in being able to take up her quarters there. There was a large restaurant downstairs, where the girls who lived in the house could have their meals provided at low prices.

Florence's bed-room was fairly neat, but very small and sparsely furnished. It was an attic room, of course, for she could only afford the cheapest apartment. She had exactly twenty pounds wherewith to support herself until fortune's ball rolled her way. She felt confident enough. She had been well educated; she had taken certain diplomas which ought to enable her to get a good situation as a teacher; but if there was one thing which poor Florence disliked it was the thought of imparting knowledge to others. If she could obtain a secretaryship or any other post she would certainly not devote her life to teaching.

"It behooves me to be sensible now," she thought; "I must look around me and see what is the best thing to do."

That evening, after the departure of Kitty and her father, she retired to her bed-room. She had bought a little tea, sugar, bread, and butter, and she made herself a small meal. The prices at the restaurant were very moderate, but Florence made a calculation that she could live for a little less by buying her own food.

"I will dine at the restaurant," she thought, "and make my own breakfast and get my own supper. I must make this twenty pounds go as far as possible, as I do not mean to take the first thing that offers. I am determined to get a secretaryship if I can."

That evening she wrote a long letter to her mother, and another to Sir John Wallis. She told Sir John that she was preparing to fight the battle in London, and gave him her address.

"I am determined," she said in the letter, "not to eat the bread of dependence. I am firmly resolved to fight my own way, and the money you have given me is, I consider, a stepping-stone to my fortunes."

She wrote frankly and gratefully, and when Sir John read the letter he determined to keep her in mind, but not to give her any further help for the present.

"She has a good deal of character," he said to himself, "although she did fall so terribly six years ago."

Mrs. Aylmer the less also received a long letter from Florence. It was written in a very different vein from the one she had sent to Sir John. Mrs. Aylmer delighted in small news, and Florence tried to satisfy her to her heart's content. She told her about Kitty's dresses and Kitty's handsome bonnets and all the different things she was taking for her foreign tour.

She described her own life with the Sharstons during the few days she had spent with them at a London hotel, and finally she spoke of her little attic up in the clouds, and how economical she meant to be, and how far she would make her money go, and how confident she was that in the future she could help her mother; and finally she sent the little Mummy her warmest love, and folded up the letter and put it into its envelope and posted it.

That letter brought great delight to Mrs. Aylmer. It was indeed what she considered a red-letter day to her when it arrived, for by parcel post that very same day there came a large packet for her from Bertha Keys, sent straight from Aylmer's Court. This packet contained a wardrobe which set the little widow's ears tingling, and flushed her cheeks, brightened her eyes, and caused her heart, as she expressed it, to bound with joy.

"Oh, Sukey, come and look; come and look!" she cried, and Sukey ran from the kitchen and held up her hands and uttered sundry ejaculations as she helped her mistress to turn over the tempting array of garments.

"There's the silk dress. What a dear girl!" cried Mrs. Aylmer. "Isn't it a perfectly splendid dress, Sukey? We must get it cut down, of course; and the extra breadths will do to renovate it when it gets a little shabby. I shall give a tea-party, I really will, Sukey, when this dress is made as good as new. I am quite certain that I can spare you my old black silk, which you know, Sukey, has been turned four times."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Sukey, in her downright voice. "And what news is there from Miss Florence, please, ma'am?"

"Oh, there is a letter. I have just had time to read it. It is a very nice, pleasant letter; but really Florence is the sort of girl who does not know where her bread is buttered. If she had been anybody else she would have made up to that young man instead of sending him away when I invited him in to supper. Florence is a great trial to me in many ways, Sukey."

"If I was you, ma'am, I'd be thankful to have such a good, nice, downright young lady like Miss Florence, that I would," said Sukey. "But don't keep me any longer now, please, ma'am. I'll go and make you a cup of cocoa: it's quite as much as you want for your dinner to-day. You're so new-fangled with your bits of clothes."

"That I am," said Mrs. Aylmer the less, as Sukey hurried out of the room.

Amongst the clothes, lying by itself, was a thick envelope. Mrs. Aylmer tore it open. There tumbled out of it two golden sovereigns.

"Dear, dear!" thought the widow; "my sister-in-law Susan must be changing her mind to send me all these lovely clothes and this money; but stay: the writing is not in Susan's hand—it is doubtless the hand of that charming young creature, Miss Keys."

Bertha's letter ran as follows:—

"DEAR MRS. AYLMER—

"I have collected a few things which I think may prove useful, in especial the silk dress which you seemed so much to covet. I also send two sovereigns, as I think you will like to have the funds to pay the dressmaker for cutting it down to your figure. Please use the sovereigns in any way you think best.

"I have a little request to make of you, dear Mrs. Aylmer. I am not likely to come to Dawlish again, but I am much interested in your dear daughter Florence, and would be greatly obliged if you would favor me with her address in London. Will you send it to me by return of post, and will you put it into the addressed envelope which I enclose, as I do not want my benefactress Mrs. Aylmer to know anything about this matter? If I can help you at any time pray command me.

"Yours sincerely,

"BERTHA KEYS."

Mrs. Aylmer was so excited by this letter, and by the fact that she possessed two sovereigns more money than she had done when she awoke that morning, that she could scarcely drink the cocoa when Sukey appeared with it.

"Sukey," she exclaimed to that worthy woman, "it never rains but it pours. We will have a tea-party: such a tea-party it shall be; done in style, I can assure you. All the neighbours who have ever shown any kindness to me shall be invited, and we will have the most recherche little set-out. I will go to Crook's, in the High Street, and order the cakes and the pastry and the sandwiches, and we will hire enough cups and saucers and tea-spoons and all the other things which will be necessary."

"You had better begin by hiring an increased apartment, ma'am," said Sukey, in a dubious voice. "I don't say nothing against this parlour, but it ain't to say large. How will you crowd in all the visitors?"

"It is fashionable to have a crowded room," said Mrs. Aylmer, pausing for a moment to consider this difficulty. "People can stand and sit on the stairs; they always do in crushes. This is to be a crush and—"

"How will you pay for it, ma'am?"

"I tell you I have money. What do you say to these?"

As Mrs. Aylmer spoke, she held a sovereign between the finger and thumb of each hand.

Sukey opened her eyes.

"Is it your sister-in-law, ma'am," she said, "that is changing her mind?"

"No, it is not; I wish it were. I can tell you no more, you curious old body; but when both our silk dresses are made to fit us we will have the party."

Sukey went softly out of the room.

"There's something brewing that I don't quite like," she said to herself. "I wish Miss Florence was at home! I wish the missus hadn't those queer mean ways! But there, when all's said and done, I have learned to be fond of her: only she's a very queer sort."

That evening Mrs. Aylmer wrote to Bertha Keys thanking her effusively for the parcel, telling her that she felt that she owed her lovely silk dress to her, and further thanking her for the sovereigns. The letter ran as follows:—

"I am not proud, my dear; and a little extra money comes in extremely handy. I mean to give a party and to show my neighbours that I am as good as any of them. It will be a return for many little kindnesses on their part, and will ensure me a comfortable winter. I shall have so many invitations to tea when they see me in that silk dress, and eat the excellent cakes, muffins, and crumpets, etc., which I shall provide for them, that they won't dare to cut me in the future.

"If you want dear Florence's address, here it is—12, Prince's Mansions, Westminster. She has taken a room in a sort of common lodging-house, and I understand from the way she has written to me that she is in one of the attics. It seems a sad pity that the dear child should pinch herself as she does, and if you, Miss Keys, could add to your other virtues that of effecting a reconciliation between Florence and her aunt by marriage, you would indeed fill my cup of gratitude to the brim.

"Yours sincerely,

"MABEL AYLMER."

"P.S.—If by any chance that most charming young man, Mr. Maurice Trevor, should be coming to Dawlish, I shall always be pleased to give him a welcome. You might mention to him where Florence is staying in London. He seemed to have taken quite a fancy to her, but mum's the word, my dear. Mothers will have dreams, you know."



CHAPTER XIII.

A WEARY WAIT.

Florence settled down in her attic, and made herself as comfortable as circumstances would permit.

With all her faults, and she had plenty, Florence had a straightforward sort of nature. She was alive to temptation, and when occasion rose, as has been already seen, could and did yield to it. But just now she was most anxious to eat the bread of independence, not to sink under the sway of Bertha Keys, to fight her own battle, and to receive her own well-earned reward.

She made her little attic look as neat and cheery as she could; she was extremely saving with regard to her food, and set to work at once trying to obtain employment.

Now, Florence honestly hated the idea of teaching. She was a fairly clever girl, but no more. She had certain aptitudes and certain talents, but they did not lie in the teacher's direction. For instance, she was no musician, and her knowledge of foreign languages was extremely small; she could read French fairly well, but could not speak it; she had only a smattering of German, and was not an artist. Her special forte was English history and literature, and she also had a fair idea of some of the sciences.

With only these weapons in hand, and the sum of twenty pounds in her pocket, she was about to fight the world.

She herself knew well, none better, that her weapons were small and her chance of success not particularly brilliant.

With a good heart, however, she started out from her lodging on the morning after her arrival in town.

She went to a registry-office in the Strand and entered her name there. From this office she went to two or three in the West End, and, having put down her name in each office and answered the questions of the clerk who took her subscription, returned home.

She had been assured in four different quarters that it was only a matter of time; that as soon as ever the schools began she would get employment.

"There is no difficulty," one and all said to her. "You want to get a teacher's post; you are quite sure to succeed. There will be plenty of people requiring assistance of all sorts at the schools when the holidays are over."

"What shall I do in the meantime?" said Florence, who knew that several weeks of the holidays had yet to run.

"In the meantime," said all these people, "there is nothing to do but wait."

Florence wondered if she had really left her mother too soon.

"It would have been cheaper to stay on with the little Mummy," she said to herself; "but, under the circumstances, I could not stay. I dared not leave myself in Bertha's power. August is nearly through, and the schools will open again about the 20th of September. By then I shall surely hear of something. Oh, it is hateful to teach; but there is no help for it."

Accordingly Florence returned home in as fair spirits as was to be expected.

She wrote and told her mother what she had done, and resolved to spend her time studying at the British Museum.

There were not many people yet in London, and she felt strange and lonely. A great longing for her old school life visited her. She wondered where her schoolfellows had gone, and what they were doing, and if they were also as hard pressed as she was.

Her money seemed to her to be already melting away in a remarkably rapid manner. She wanted new boots and a neat new serge dress, and thought she might as well get these necessary articles of apparel now, while she was waiting for a situation, as later; but, although she bought boots at the very cheapest place she could find, her funds melted still further, and before September was half through she had spent between five and six pounds of her small stock of money.

"This will never do," she said to herself; "I shall get so frightened that I shall become nervous. What am I to do? How am I to eke out the money till I get a post as teacher?"

It was already time for different mistresses at schools to be applying to her for her valuable services; but, although she listened with a beating heart as she heard the postman run up the stairs and deposit letters in the different hall doors of the various flats, very seldom indeed did the good man come up as far as her attic, and then it was a letter from her mother.

She decided to go again to the offices where she had entered her name, and enquire if there were any post likely to suit her which she could apply for. She was now received in a totally different spirit.

"It is extremely unlikely, miss," said one and all of the clerks who had been so specious on the occasion of her first visit, "that we can get you anything to do. You are not a governess, you know, in the ordinary sense. You cannot teach music, nor languages, nor drawing. What can you expect, madam?"

"But you told me," began poor Florence, "you told me when I paid my fee on the previous occasion of calling that you could get me a post without the slightest difficulty."

"We will do our utmost, of course, madam; but, with your want of experience, we can make no definite promise. We certainly made none in the past," and the clerk whom Florence was interrogating gave her a severe glance, which was meant as a dismissal.

"If you cannot get me anything to do as a teacher, is there nothing else you can think of to suit me? Secretaries are sometimes employed, are they not?"

"Secretaryships are not in our line," said the clerk; "at least, not for ladies. People prefer men for the post—clever men who understand shorthand. You, of course, know nothing of that accomplishment?"

"Certainly not! Girls never learn shorthand," said Florence.

She left one office after the other, feeling sadder and sadder.

"What is to be done?" she said to herself, almost in tones of despair.



CHAPTER XIV.

A BLUNT QUESTION.

Florence was returning slowly home by way of Trafalgar Square when she heard a voice in her ear. She turned quickly, and was much astonished to see the bright face and keen blue eyes of Maurice Trevor.

"I thought it must be you," exclaimed the young man. "I am glad to see you. You passed me in a hurry just now, and never noticed me, so I took the liberty of following you. How do you do? I didn't know you were in town."

"I have been in town for over a fortnight," replied Florence. She found herself colouring, then turning pale.

"Is anything the matter? You don't look well."

"I am tired, that is all."

"May I walk part of the way home with you? It is nice to meet an old friend."

"Just as you please," replied Florence.

"Where do you live?"

"I am in a house in Westminster—12, Prince's Mansion, it is called. It is a curious sort of place, and let out in rooms to girls like myself. There is a restaurant downstairs. It is a nice, convenient place, and it is not dear. I think myself very lucky to have a room there."

"I suppose you are," assented Trevor, "but it sounds extraordinary. Do you like living alone in London?"

"I have no choice," replied Florence.

"I was sorry not to have seen you again before we left Dawlish. We had a good deal in common, had we not? That was a pleasant afternoon that we spent together looking at the sea-anemones."

"Very pleasant," she answered.

"And how is your mother, Miss Aylmer, and that nice young friend—I forget her name."

"Mother is quite well. I heard from her a few days ago; and Kitty Sharston is abroad."

"Kitty Sharston: that is a pretty name."

"And Kitty is so pretty herself," continued Florence, forgetting her anxieties, and beginning to talk in a natural way. "She is one of the nicest girls I have ever met. Her father has just returned from India, and he and she are enjoying a holiday together. But now, may I ask you some questions? Why are you not with Mrs. Aylmer and Bertha Keys?"

"I have not been at Aylmer's Court for some days. My mother has not been quite well, and I have been paying her a visit. But do tell me more about yourself. Are you going to live altogether in London?"

"I hope so."

"What a pity I didn't know it before! Mother would so like to know you, Miss Aylmer. I have told her something about you. Won't you come and see her some day? She would call on you, but she is quite an old lady, and perhaps you will not stand on ceremony."

"Of course not. I should be delighted to see your mother," said Florence, brightening up wonderfully. "I have been very lonely," she added.

"When I go home to-night I will tell mother that I have met you, and she will write to you. Will you spend Sunday with us?"

"Shall you be at home?"

"Yes; I am not going back to Aylmer's Court until Tuesday. I will ask mother to invite you. I could meet you and bring you to Hampstead. We have a cottage in a terrace close to the heath; you will enjoy the air on Hampstead Heath. It is nearly as good as being in the country."

"I am sure it must be lovely. I am glad I met you," said poor Florence.

"You look better now," he answered, "but please give me your address over again."

As Trevor spoke, he took a small, gold-mounted note-book from his pocket, and when Florence gave him the address he entered it in a neat hand.

"Thank you," he said, putting the note-book back into his waistcoat pocket. "You will be sure to receive your invitation. You look more rested now, but you still have quite a fagged look."

"How can you tell? How do you know?"

"I have often watched that sort of look on people's faces. I take a great interest in—oh! so many things, that I could talk to you about if we had time. I am very sorry for Londoners. I should not care to live in London all my life."

"Nor should I; but, all the same, I expect I shall have to. Perhaps I ought to tell you, Mr. Trevor, quite frankly that I am a very poor girl, and have to earn my own living—that is why I am staying in a place like Prince's Mansions. I have an attic in No. 12, a tiny room up in the roof, and I am looking out for employment."

"What sort of employment? What do you want to do?" asked Trevor.

"I suppose I shall have to teach, but I should like to be a secretary."

"A secretary—that is rather a wide remark. What sort of secretary?"

"Oh, I don't know; but anything is better than teaching. It is just because a secretaryship sounds vague that I think I should like it."

Trevor was thinking to himself. After a moment he spoke.

"Do you mind my asking you a very blunt question?"

Florence gave him a puzzled glance.

"What sort of a question? What do you mean?"

"Are you not Mrs. Aylmer's niece?"

"Your Mrs. Aylmer's niece?"

"Yes."

"I am her niece by marriage. Her husband was my father's brother."

"I understand; but how is it she never asks you to Aylmer's Court nor takes any notice of you?"

"I am afraid I cannot tell you."

"Cannot? Does that mean that you will not?"

"I will not, then."

Trevor flushed slightly. They had now nearly reached Westminster.

"Here is a tea-shop," he said; "will you come in and have tea with me?"

Florence hesitated.

"Thank you. I may as well," she said then slowly.

They entered a pretty shop with little round tables covered with white cloths. That sort of shop was a novelty at that time.

Trevor and Florence secured a table to themselves. Florence was very hungry, but she restrained her appetite, fearing that he would notice. She longed to ask for another bun and a pat of butter.

"Oh, dear," she was saying to herself, as she drank her tea and ate her thin bread-and-butter, "I could demolish half the things in the shop. It is perfectly dreadful, and this tea must take the place of another meal. I must take the benefit of his hospitality."

A few moments later Trevor had bidden her good-bye.

"My mother will be sure to write to you," he said.

She would not let him walk with her as far as her lodgings, but shook hands with him with some pleasure in her face.

"I am so glad I met you," she repeated, and he echoed the sentiment.

As soon as he got home that day he went straight to his mother.

"You are better, are you not?" he said to her.

Mrs. Trevor was a middle-aged woman, who was more or less of an invalid. She was devoted to her son Maurice, and, although she delighted in feeling that he was provided for for life owing to Mrs. Aylmer's generosity, she missed him morning, noon, and night.

"Ah, darling, it is good to see you back again," she said; "but you look hot and tired. What a long time you have been in town!"

"I have had quite an adventure," he said. "Mother, I want to know if you will do something for me."

"You have but to ask, Maurice."

"There is a girl"—he hesitated, and a very slight accession of colour came into his bronzed cheeks, "there is a girl I have taken rather a fancy to. Oh, no, I am not the least bit in love with her, so don't imagine it, little mother; but I pity her, and like her also exceedingly. I met her down at Dawlish. I want to know if you will be good to her. I came across her to-day whilst walking in town, and she was looking, oh! so fagged out and tired! I said you would write and invite her to come and see us here, and I promised that you would ask her to spend next Sunday with us."

"Oh, my dear Maurice, your last Sunday with me, God only knows for how long!"

"But you don't mind, do you, mother?"

She looked at him very earnestly. She was a wise woman in her way.

"No, I don't mind," she said; "I will ask her, of course."

"Then that is all right. Her name is Miss Florence Aylmer, and this is her address."

"Aylmer! How strange!"

"It is all very strange, mother. I cannot understand it, and it troubles me a good deal. She is Florence Aylmer, and she is my Mrs. Aylmer's niece by marriage."

"Very queer," said Mrs. Trevor; "I never thought Mrs. Aylmer had any relations. What sort of girl did you say she was?"

"Not exactly handsome, but with a taking face and a good deal of pluck about her—and oh, mother, I believe she is starvingly poor, and she has to earn her own living, I made her have a cup to tea and some bread-and-butter to-night, and she ate as if she were famished. It's awfully distressing. I really don't know what ought to be done."



CHAPTER XV.

EDITH FRANKS.

When Florence reached home she sat down for a long time in her attic, and did not move. She was thoroughly tired, and the slight meal she had taken at the restaurant had by no means satisfied her appetite. After about half an hour of anxious thought, during which she looked far older than her years, she took off her hat, and, going to her tiny chest of drawers, unlocked one of them and took her purse out. She carefully counted its contents. There were twelve unbroken sovereigns in the purse, and about two pounds' worth of silver—nearly fourteen pounds in all.

"How fast it is going!" thought the girl. "At this rate it will not see me through the winter, and, if those terrible people at the different registry-offices are right, I may not get any work during the whole winter. What shall I do? I will not go back to the little Mummy, to live upon her and prove myself a failure. I shall not ask anybody to help me. I must, I will fight my battle alone. Oh, this hunger! What would I not give for a good dinner."

She took up one of the shillings, and looked at it longingly. With this in her hand, she could go down to the restaurant and have as much food as she required. Suddenly she made up her mind.

"I must eat well for once. I must get over this hunger. I cannot help myself," she said to herself. "This meal must last me the greater part of the week; to-morrow and the next day and the next I must do with a bread-and-butter dinner; but there is Sunday to be thought of—Sunday with that nice Mr. Trevor, Sunday with the country air all around, and of course plenty to eat. If I can have a good dinner to-night, I can go without another at least till Sunday."

So, hastily putting back the rest of her money, and locking her drawer, she went downstairs to the restaurant. She went to a table where she had sat before, and ordered her meal. She looked at the menu and ordered her dinner with extreme care. She could have anything she fancied on the menu for a shilling. A good many girls had really excellent and nourishing meals for sixpence, but Florence was so hungry she determined to be, as she expressed it, greedy for once. So she made her selection, and then sat back to wait as best she could for the first of the dishes to arrive.

A girl with a rosy face and bright dark eyes presently came and took the seat opposite to her. She was a stranger to Florence. The waitress came up and asked what the girl would like to have for dinner.

"Soup, please, and a chop afterwards," was the hasty reply.

The waitress went away, and the girl, taking a German book out of her bag, opened it and began to read eagerly. She did not notice Florence, who had no book, and was feeling in a very excited and fractious humour, becoming feverishly anxious for her dinner. Presently Florence dropped her napkin-ring, making a little clatter as she did so. The girl seated opposite started, stopped, and picked it up for her.

"Thank you," said Florence.

There was something in her tone which caused the strange girl to drop her German book and look at her attentively.

"Are you very tired?" she said.

"Tired, yes, but it does not matter," answered Florence.

"It is the hot weather," said the girl; "it is horrid being in town now. I should not be, only—" She paused and looked full at Florence, then she said impulsively: "You will be somewhat surprised: I am going to be a doctor—a lady doctor. You are horrified, no doubt. Before ten years are out there will be women doctors in England: they are much wanted."

"But can you, do they allow you to study in the men's schools?"

"Do they?" said the girl; "of course they don't. I have to go to America to get my degree. I am working here, and shall go to New York early in the spring. Oh, I am very busy, and deeply interested. The whole thing is profoundly interesting, fearfully so. I am reading medical books, not only in English, but also in French and German. Do you mind if I go on reading until dinner arrives?"

"Of course not. Why should you stop your studies on my account?" said Florence.

The girl again favoured her with a keen glance, and then, to Florence's surprise, instead of continuing her reading, she immediately closed her book and looked full across at her companion.

"Why don't you read?" said Florence, in a voice which was almost cross.

"Thank you; I have found other employment."

"Staring at me?"

"Well, yes; you interest me. You are fearfully neurotic and—and anaemic. You ought to take iron."

"Thank you," said Florence; "I don't want anything which would make me more hungry than I am at present. Iron is supposed to promote appetite, is it not?"

"Yes. Do you live in this house?"

"I do," answered Florence.

"I have taken a room on the third floor, No. 17. What is your number?"

"Oh, I aspire a good bit," said Florence, with the ghost of a smile; "the number of my room is 32."

"May I come and see you?"

"No, thank you."

"What a rude girl! You certainly are fearfully neurotic. Ah! here comes—no, it's not my dinner, it is yours."

The soup Florence had ordered was placed before her. How she wished this bright-eyed girl, with the rude manner, as she considered, would resume her German.

"Would you like me to go on reading?" said the girl.

"You can please yourself, of course," answered Florence.

"I won't look at you, if that is what you mean; but I do wish, if I may not come to see you, that you will come to see me. There are so few girls at present in the house, and those who are there ought to make friends, ought they not? See: this is my card—Edith Franks."

"And you really mean to be a doctor—a doctor?" said Florence, not glancing at the card which her companion pushed towards her.

"It is the dearest dream of my life. I want to follow in the steps of Mrs. Garrett Anderson; is she not noble? I thought you would be pleased."

"I don't know that I am; it does not sound feminine," replied Florence. She was devouring her soup, and hating Edith Franks for staring at her.

Presently Edith's own dinner arrived, and she began to eat. She ate in a leisurely fashion, sipping her soup, and breaking her bread into small portions. She was not very hungry; in fact, she was scarcely hungry at all.

As Florence's own quite large meal proceeded, she began to consider herself the greediest of the greedy.

Miss Franks sat on and chatted. She talked very well, and she had plenty of tact, and soon Florence began to consider her rather agreeable than the reverse. Florence had ordered five distinct dishes for her dinner, and she ate each dish right through. Miss Franks was now even afraid to glance in her direction.

"There is no doubt the poor soul was starving," she said to herself.

At last Florence's meal was over. The two girls left the table together.

"Come to my room, won't you, to-night? It is not seven o'clock yet. I always have cocoa between nine and ten. Come and have a cup of cocoa with me, will you not?"

"Thank you," said Florence; "you are very good. My name is Florence Aylmer."

"And you are studying? What are you doing?"

"I am not studying."

"Aren't you? Then—"

"You are full of curiosity, and you want to know why I am here," said Florence. "I am here because I want to earn my bread. I hope to get a situation soon. I am a girl out of a situation—you know the kind." She gave a laugh, and ran up the winding stairs to her own attic at the top of the house, without glancing back at Edith Franks.

"Shy, poor, and half-starved," said the medical student to herself; "I thought my work would come to me if I waited long enough. I must look after her a little bit."

Meanwhile, the very first thing Florence found when she entered her room was a letter, or, rather, a packet, lying on her table. She pounced upon it, as the hungry pounce on food. Her appetite was thoroughly satisfied at last, and her mind was just in the humour to require some diversion. She thought that she would rather like having cocoa presently with Miss Franks.

"She shall not patronise me; of that I am resolved," thought the proud girl. But here was a letter—a thick, thick letter. She flung herself into the first chair and tore it open. She glanced, a puzzled expression on her face, at pages of closely-written matter, and then picked up a single sheet, which had fallen from the packet. The letter was from Bertha Keys, and ran as follows:—

"MY DEAR, GOOD, BRAVE FLO—

"I have obtained your address, no matter how, no matter why, and I write to you. How are you getting on? You did a daring thing when you returned you know what; but, my dear, I respect you all the more for endeavouring to be independent. I think, however, it is quite possible that you may have considered my other suggestion.

"Now, Flo, I should like to see myself in print—not myself as I am, but my words, the ideas which come through my brain. I long to see them before the world, to hear remarks upon them. Will you, dear Flo, read the tale which I enclose, and if you think it any good at all take it to a publisher and see if he will use it? You had better find an editor of a magazine, and offer it to him. It is not more than four thousand words in length, and it is, I think, exciting; and will you put your name to it and publish it as your own? I don't want the world to know Bertha Keys writes stories, but I should like the world to know the thoughts which come into her head, and if we make a compact between us there can be nothing wrong in it, and—but I will add no more. Do, do, dear Flo, make use of this story. I do not require any money for it. Make what use of it you can, and let me know if I am to send you further MSS.

"Your aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, is a little more snappish than usual. I have a hard time, I assure you, with her. My great friend, Maurice Trevor, returns, I think, in a day or two. Ah, Florence, you little know what a great, great friend he is!

"Yours affectionately,

"BERTHA KEYS."



CHAPTER XVI.

ON THE BRINK OF AN ABYSS.

Florence sat for a long time with the manuscript of Bertha's story on her lap. Having read the letter once, she did not trouble herself to read it again. It was the sort of letter Bertha always wrote—the letter which meant temptation, the letter which seemed to drag its victim to the edge of an abyss.

Florence said to herself: "Shall I read the manuscript or shall I not? Shall I put it into the fire or shall I waste a couple of pence in returning it to Bertha, or shall I—"

She did not finish even in her own mind the last suggestion which formed itself in her brain. She had not read the title of the manuscript, but her thoughts kept wandering round and round it to the exclusion of everything else. Presently she took it in her hand, and felt its weight, and then she turned the pages one by one, and glanced at them for a moment, and saw that they were all written out very neatly, in a sort of copper-plate writing which was not the least like Bertha's. Bertha had a bold, dashing sort of hand, but this hand might be the work of anyone—the ordinary clerk used such a handwriting. The words were very easily read. Florence caught herself imbibing the meaning of a whole sentence; then, with a sudden, quick movement, she dashed the manuscript away from her to the other side of the room, and walked over and stood by the open window looking across London. She had a headache, brought on through intense excitement, and the view, for the greater part concealed by the interminable London houses, scarcely appealed to her.

"It all looks worldly and sordid," thought the girl to herself. "I suppose it is very nice that I should have this peep across those chimney-tops, and should see those tops of houses, tier upon tier, far away as the skyline, but I am sick of them. They all look sordid. They all look cruel. London is a place to crush a girl; but I—I won't be crushed."

She paced up and down her room. There was not the slightest doubt that Bertha's letter was the one subject of her thoughts. Suddenly she came to a resolution.

"I know what I'll do," she said to herself; "I won't read that manuscript, but I'll get Miss Edith Franks to read it. I won't tell her who has written it; she can draw her own conclusions. I'll get her to read it aloud to me, and perhaps she will tell me what it is worth. I hope, I do hope to God that it is worth nothing—that it is poor and badly written, and that she will advise the author to put it into the fire, and not to waste her time offering it to a publisher. She shall be the judge of its merits; but I won't decide yet whether I shall use it or not—only she shall tell me whether it is worth using. I am sure it won't be worth using. Bertha wrote a clever essay long ago, but she does not write much, and she must be out of practice; and why should she be so clever and able to do everything so well? But Miss Franks shall decide. She looks as if she could give one a very downright honest opinion, and she is literary and cultivated, and would know if the thing is worth anything. Yes, it is a comfort to come to some decision."

So Florence washed her face and hands, made her hair tidy, and put on a fresh white linen collar, and soon after nine o'clock, with the manuscript in her hand, she ran downstairs, and presently knocked at the door of No. 17. The brisk voice of Miss Franks said: "Come in!" and Florence entered.

"That is right," said Edith Franks; "I am right glad to see you. What do you think of my diggings—nice, eh?"

"Oh, you are comfortable here," said Florence, with the ghost of a sigh, for truly the room, as compared with her own, looked absolutely luxurious. There was a comfortable sofa, which Miss Franks told her afterwards she had contrived out of a number of old packing-cases, and there was a deep straw armchair lined with chintz and abundantly cushioned, and on a table pushed against the wall and on the mantelpiece were jars full of lovely flowers—roses, verbena, sweetbriar, and quantities of pinks. The room was fragrant with these flowers, and Florence gave a great sigh as she smelt them.

"Oh, how sweet!" she said.

"Yes; I put this verbena on the little round table near the sofa; you are to lie on the sofa. Come: put up your feet this minute."

"But I really don't want to," said Florence, protesting, and beginning to laugh.

"But I want you to. You can do as you please in the restaurant, and you can do as you please in your own diggings, but in mine you are to do as I wish. Now then, up go your feet. I am making the most delicious cocoa by a new recipe. I bought a spirit-lamp this morning. You cannot think how clever I am over all sorts of cooking."

"But what are those things on that table?" said Florence.

"Oh, some of my medical tools. I do a tiny bit of dissecting now and then—nothing very dreadful. I have nothing to-night of the least importance, so you need not shudder. I want to devote myself to you."

Florence could not but own that it was nice to be waited on. The sofa made out of packing-cases was extremely soft and comfortable. Miss Franks put pillows for her guest's comfort and laid a light couvre-pied over her feet.

"Now then," she said, "a little gentle breeze is coming in at the window, and the roses and pinks and mignonette will smell more sweetly still as the night advances. I will not light the lamp yet, for there is splendid moonlight, and it is such a witching hour. I can make the cocoa beautifully by moonlight. It will be quite romantic to do so, and then afterwards I will show you my charming reading-lamp. I have a lamp with a green shade lined with white, the best possible thing for the eyes. I will make you a shade when I have time. Now then, watch me make the cocoa, or, if you prefer it, look out of the window and let the moon soothe your ruffled feelings."

"You are very kind, and I don't know how to thank you," said Florence; "but how can you possibly tell that I have ruffled feelings?"

"See them in your brow, my dear: observe them in your face. I am not a medical student for nothing. I tell you you are anaemic and neurotic; indeed, your nerves have reached a rare state of irritability. At the present moment you are in quite a crux, and do not know what to do. Oh, I am a witch—I am quite a witch; I can read people through and through; but I like you, my dear. You are vastly more interesting to me because you are in a crux, and neurotic and anaemic. Now then, look at your dear lady moon, and let me make the cocoa in peace."

"What an extraordinary girl!" thought Florence to herself; "but I suppose I like her. She is so fearfully downright, I feel almost afraid of her."

Miss Franks darted here and there, busy with her cooking. After a time, with a little sigh of excitement, Florence saw her put the extinguisher on the spirit-lamp. She then hastily lit the lamp with the green shade, and, placing it on the table where the verbena and the sweetbriar and mignonette gave forth such intoxicating odours, she laid a cup of steaming frothy cocoa by Florence's side, and a plate of biscuits not far off.

"Now then, eat, drink, and be thankful," said Miss Franks. "I love cocoa at this hour. Yours is made entirely of milk, so it will be vastly nourishing. I am going to enjoy my cup also."

She flung herself into the straw chair lined with cushions, and took her own supper daintily and slowly. While she ate, her bright eyes kept darting about the room noting everything, and from time to time fastening themselves with the keenest penetration on Florence's flushed face.

Florence felt that never in the whole course of her life had she enjoyed anything more than that cup of cocoa.

When the meal was finished Miss Franks jumped up and began to wash the cups and saucers.

"You must let me help you," said Florence. She sprang very determinedly to her feet. "I have done these things over and over for mother at home," she said, "and I really must wash my own cup and saucer."

"You shall wipe, and I will wash," said Miss Franks. "I don't at all mind being helped. Division of labour lightens toil, does it not? There, take that tea-towel; it is a beauty, is it not? It is Russian."

It was embroidered at each edge with wonderful stitches in red, and was also trimmed with heavy lace.

"I have a sister in Russia, and she sent me a lot of these things when I told her I meant to take up housekeeping," said Miss Franks. "Now that we have washed up and put everything into apple-pie order, what about that manuscript?"

"What manuscript?" said Florence, starting and colouring.

"The one you brought into the room. You don't suppose I didn't see? You have hidden it just under that pillow on the sofa. Lie down once more on your place of repose, and let me run my eye over it."

"Would you?" said Florence. She coloured very deeply. "Would you greatly mind reading it aloud?"

"You have written it, I presume?" said Miss Franks.

Florence did not say anything. She shut up her mouth into rather a hard line. Edith Franks nodded twice to herself; then, putting on her pincenez, she proceeded to read the manuscript. She had a perfectly well-trained voice without a great amount of expression in it. She read on at first slowly and smoothly. At the end of the first page she paused for a moment, and looked full up at her companion.

"How well you have been taught English!" she said.

Still Florence did not utter a word.

At the end of the second page Miss Franks again made a remark.

"Your writing is so good that I have never to pause to find out the meaning of a word, and you have a very pure Saxon style."

"Oh, I wish you would go on, and make your comments at the end," said Florence then, in an almost cross tone.

"My dear, that answer of yours requires medicine. I shall certainly insist upon your taking a tonic to your room with you. I can dispense a little already, and have some directions by me. I can make up something which will do you a lot of good."

"Do go on reading," said Florence.

Edith Franks proceeded with the manuscript. Her even voice still flowed on without pause or interruption. At the end of the third or fourth page, however, she ceased to make any remarks: she turned the pages now rapidly, and about the middle of the story her voice changed its tone. It was no longer even nor smooth: it became broken as though something oppressed her, then it rose triumphant and excited. She had finished: she flung the manuscript back almost at Florence's head with a gay laugh.

"And you pretend, you pretend," she said, "that you are a starving girl—a girl out of a situation! You are a sham, Miss Aylmer—you are a sham."

"What do you mean?" said Florence.

"Why, this," said Edith Franks. She took up the manuscript again.

"What about it? I mean, do you—do you—like it?"

"Like it? It is not that exactly. I admire it, of course. Have you written much? Have you ever published anything?"

"Never a line."

"But you must have written a great deal to have achieved that style."

"No, I have written very little."

"Then you are a heaven-born genius: give me your hand."

Florence slowly and unwilling extended her hand. Miss Franks grasped it in both of hers.

"Flexible fingers," she said, "but not exactly, not precisely the hand of an artist, and yet, and yet you are an artist through and through. My dear, you are a genius."

"I do not know why you say that."

"Because you have written that story, that queer, weird, extraordinary tale. It is not the plot alone: it is the way you have told it, the way the figures group themselves together, the strength that is in them, the way you have grasped the situation; and you have made all those characters live. They move backwards and forwards; they are human beings. I am so glad Johanna won the victory, she was so brave, and it was such a cruel temptation. Oh, I shall dream of that story, and yet you say you have written very little."

"You jump to conclusions," said Florence. She spoke in a queer voice. "I never told you that I had written that story."

"But you have, my dear; I see it in your face. Oh, I congratulate you."

"Would it be possible to—to publish it?" was Florence's next remark, made after a long pause.

"Publish it? I know half a dozen editors in London who would jump at it. I know a good deal about writing, as it happens. My brother is a journalist, and he has talked to me about these things. He is a very clever journalist, and at one time I had a faint sort of dream that I might follow in his steps, but my own career is better—I mean for me. Publish it; of course, you shall publish it. Editors are only too thankful to get the real stuff, but, poor souls! they seldom do get it. You will be paid well for this. Of course, you will make up your mind to be an author, a writer of short stories, a second Bret Harte. Oh, this is splendid, superb!"

Florence got up from her sofa; she felt a little giddy. Her face was very white.

"Do you—do you know any publishers personally?" was her next remark.

"Not personally, but I can give you a list of half a dozen at least. I shall watch your career with intense interest, and I can advise you too. I tell you what it is—on Sunday I will go and see my brother Tom, and I will tell him about you, and ask him what he would recommend. You must not give yourself away; you have a great career before you. Of course, you will lead the life of a writer, and nothing else?"

"Good night," said Florence; "I am very tired, but I am awfully obliged to you."

"Won't you wait until I make up your tonic?"

"I could not take it to-night. I have a bad headache; I want to go to bed. Thank you so very much."

"But, I say, you are leaving your darling, precious manuscript behind you." Miss Franks darted after Florence, and thrust the manuscript into her hand.

"Take care of it," she said; "it is the work of a genius. Now, good night."

Florence went upstairs. Slowly she entered her dismal little attic. She lit a candle, and locked her door. She laid the manuscript on the chest of drawers. She went some steps away from it as though she were afraid of it; then with a hasty movement she unlocked the drawer where she kept her purse, and thrust the manuscript in. She locked the drawer again, and put the key into her writing-desk, and then she undressed as fast as ever she could, and got into bed, and covered her head so that she should not see the moon shining into her room, and said under her breath: "O God, let me sleep as soon as possible, for I cannot, I dare not think."



CHAPTER XVII.

NEARER AND NEARER.

Florence had lived without letters for some time, but now they seemed to pour in. The next morning, as she was preparing her extremely frugal breakfast, consisting of bread without butter and a little weak tea, she heard the postman climbing all the way up to her attic floor. His double knock sounded on her door, and a letter was dropped in. She took it up: it was from her mother. She opened it languidly. Mrs. Aylmer wrote in some distress:—

"MY DARLING CHILD—

"The queerest thing has happened. I cannot possibly account for it. I have been robbed of five pounds. I was on the sands yesterday talking to a very pleasant jolly fat little man, who interested me by telling me that he knew London, and that he considered I had done extremely wrong in allowing you to go there without a chaperon. He described the dangers to which young girls were subjected in such terrible and fearful language that I very nearly screamed.

"I thanked him for his advice, and told him that I would write to you immediately and ask you to come home. My darling, it would be better for us both to starve at home than for you to run the risks which he has hinted at.

"But to come to the real object of this letter. I am five pounds short, my dear Florry—I had five pounds in my pocket, two of which I had received unexpectedly, and three from my very, very tiny income. Sukey and I were going to have quite a little turn-out—a nice tea-party; but fortunately, most fortunately, Providence prevented my ordering the buns and cakes, or sending out the invitations, and when I came in my money was gone. Of course it was not the little man, so do not point your suspicions at him. Somebody robbed the widow. Oh, what a judgment will yet fall upon that head!

"Dear Flo, I know you have something by you—how large a sum you have never confided to your poor mother. Will you lend me five pounds, darling, and send it at once? Quarter-day is coming on, and I have several things to meet. Do not hesitate, my love: it shall be returned to you when I get my next allowance.

"I will write to you later on with regard to your coming back to Dawlish. In the meantime think of your poor mother's distress, and do your utmost for her."

Florence let the letter drop from her hands. She sat before her frugal board, and slowly and listlessly raised her cup of tea to her lips.

"I seem to be pushed gradually nearer and nearer the edge," she said to herself. "What possessed mother to lose that money? Of course the man was a thief. Mother is so silly, and she really gets worse as she grows older. Dear little Mummy, I love her with all my heart; but her want of common-sense does try me sometimes."

The day was going to be a particularly hot one. There was a mist all over the horizon, and the breeze was moving languidly.

Florence had her window wide open, and was wondering how she could live through the day. To-day was Saturday. To-morrow she would have a pleasant time. She looked forward to meeting Maurice Trevor more than she dared to admit to herself. She wondered what sort of woman his mother was.

"At any rate," she said to herself, "he is nice. I like him, and I am sure he likes me, and we shall enjoy ourselves on Hampstead Heath. It won't be so hot there; it will be a little bit of the country. I must send mother the five pounds, and I suppose I need not decide about that awful manuscript till Monday."

These thoughts had scarcely come into her head before there came a knock at her door. Florence went to open it, and Edith Franks, very neatly dressed, and looking business-like and purposeful, with bright eyes and a clear colour in her cheeks, stood on the threshold.

"How do you do?" she said. "I am just off to my work. I am about to have a very hard day, but I thought I would refresh myself with a sight of you. May I come in?"

"Please do," said Florence, but she did not look altogether happy as she gave the invitation. Her bed was unmade, her dressing things were lying about, her breakfast was just the sort which she did not wish the keen-eyed medical student to see. There was no help for it, however. Edith Franks had come up for the purpose of spying into the nakedness of the land, and spy she did. She looked quickly round her in that darting, bird-like manner which characterised all her movements. She saw the untidy room, she noticed the humble, insufficient meal.

Edith Franks had the kindest heart in the world; but she was sometimes a little, just a very little destitute of tact.

"My dear," she said, "may I sit down? Your stairs really take one's breath away. I know now what I specially came for. Tom has promised to call for me this morning."

"Who is Tom?" asked Florence.

"Don't you know? What a short memory you have! I told you something about him last night—my clever journalist brother. He is on the staff of the Daily Tidings, and the new six-penny magazine that people talk so much about, the Argonaut. He has a splendid post, and has great influence. If you will entrust that precious manuscript to me, I will let Tom see it. He is the best of judges. If he says it is worth anything, your fortune is made. If, on the other hand—"

"Oh, but he won't like it, and I think I would rather not," said Florence. She turned very pale as she spoke. Edith gave her another glance.

"Let me have it," she said. "Tom's seeing it means nothing. I will get him to run his eye over it while we are at lunch together. Here, get it for me; there's a good girl."

Florence rose. Her feet seemed weighted with lead. She unlocked her drawer, took out the manuscript, and nearly flung it at Edith's head. She restrained herself, however, and stood with it in her hand looking as undecided as a girl could look.

"You tempt me mightily," she said; "why do you tempt me?"

"To get money for what is such splendid work," said Miss Franks, with a gay laugh. "I am glad I tempt you, for you want money, you poor, proud, queer girl. I like you—I like you much, but you must just let me help you over this crisis. Give it to me, my dear."

She nearly snatched the manuscript from Florence, and thrust it into a small leather bag which she wore at her side.

"Tom shall tell you what he thinks of it, and now ta! ta!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

A VESTIGE OF HOPE.

Miss Franks was heard tripping downstairs as fast as her feet could carry her, and Florence covered her face with her hands.

"I have yielded," she said to herself. "What is to be done?" She got up desperately.

"I must not think, that is evident," was her next sensation. She could not take any more breakfast. She was too tired, too stunned, too unnerved. She dressed herself slowly, and determined, after posting the necessary money to her mother, to go the round of the different registry-offices where she had entered her name.

"If there is any chance, any chance at all, I will tell Edith Franks the truth to-night," she said to herself. "If there is no chance of my earning money—why, this sum that mother has demanded of me means the reducing of my store to seven pounds and some odd silver—I shall be penniless before many weeks are over. What is to be done?"

Florence wrote a short letter to her mother. She made no allusions whatever to the little woman's comments with regard to the dangers in which she herself was placed.

"I am extremely likely to die of starvation, but there is no other danger in my living alone in London," she thought, with a short laugh. And then she went to a post-office and got the necessary postal orders, and put them into the letter, and registered it and sent it off.

"Oh, Mummy, do be careful," she said, in the postscript; "it has been rather hard to spare you this, though, of course I do it with a heart and a half."

Afterwards poor Florence went the dreary round—from Harley-street to Bond-street, from Bond-street to Regent-street, from Regent-street to the Strand did she wander, and in each registry-office she received the same reply: "There is nothing at all likely to suit you."

At last, in a little office in Fleet-street, she was handed the address of a lady who kept a school, and who might be inclined to give Florence a small post.

"The lady came in late last night," said the young woman who spoke to her across a crowded counter, "and she said she wanted someone to come and live in the house and look after a lot of girls, and she would be glad to make arrangements, as term would begin in about a fortnight. You might look her up. I know the salary will be very small; but I think she is willing to give board and lodging."

Slightly cheered by this vestige of hope, Florence mounted an omnibus, and presently found herself at South Kensington. She found the right street, and stopped before a door of somewhat humble dimensions. She rang the bell. A charwoman opened the door after some delay, told her that Mrs. Fleming was within, and asked her what her message was.

Florence said she had come after the post which Mrs. Fleming was offering.

The charwoman looked dubious.

"I wouldn't if I was you," she said, in a low voice, hiding both her hands under her apron as she spoke.

Florence would not condescend to consult with the charwoman whether she was to accept the situation or not. She simply said: "Will you tell your mistress that I am here?"

"A wilful lass," muttered the old woman, "and I told her she had better not." She shambled across a dirty passage, and opened a door at the farther end. A moment later Florence found herself in the presence of a tall woman with a very much powdered face and untidy hair. This personage was dressed in rusty black, wore a dirty collar and cuffs, and had hands evidently long strangers to soap-and-water. She invited Florence to seat herself, and looked her all over.

"H'm! you've come after the situation. Your name, please."

"Florence Aylmer."

"Your age?"

"I am nearly twenty-one."

"Very young. Have you had experience in controlling the follies of youth?"

"I have been pupil teacher at my last school for over a year," said Florence.

"Ah, and where was your school?"

Florence mentioned it.

"Have you ever got into any scrape of any sort, been a naughty girl, or anything of that kind? I have to make most searching enquiries."

"Why do you ask?" said Florence. She coloured first, and then turned very pale.

Mrs. Fleming gazed at her with hawk-like eyes.

"Why don't you answer?"

"Because I cannot see," replied Florence, with some spirit, "that you have any right to ask me the question. I can give you excellent testimonials from the mistress of the school where I was living."

"That will not do. I find that nothing so influences youth as that the instructress should give an epitome of her own life, should be able plainly to show how she has conquered temptation, and risen even above the appearance of evil. If there is a flaw in the governess, there will also be a flaw in the pupils—understand, eh?"

"Yes, madam," said Florence; "I am afraid your post won't suit me. I have certainly a great many flaws; I never supposed you wanted a perfect governess."

"Impertinent," said Mrs. Fleming. "Here am I ready to offer you the shelter of my roof, the excellent food which always prevails in this establishment, and fifteen pounds a year, and yet you talk in that lofty tone. You are a very silly young woman. I am quite sure you won't suit me."

"It is a foregone conclusion," said Florence, indulging in a little pertness as she saw that the situation would no more suit her than she it. She walked towards the door.

"I will wish you good morning," she said.

"Stay one moment. What can you teach?"

"Nothing that will suit you."

"I must certainly remove my name from that registry-office. I stipulated that I should see godly maidens of spotless character. You, who evidently have a shady past, dare to come to me to offer your polluted services! I will wish you good morning."

"I have already wished you good morning," said Florence. She turned without another word, and, not deigning to ask the assistance of the charwoman, left the house.

When she got to the street she was trembling.

"It is hard for girls like me to earn their own bread," she said to herself. "What is to be done? Nearer and nearer am I getting to the edge of the cliff. What is to be done?"

She returned home, and spent the rest of the day in a state of intense depression. Her attic was so suffocating that she could not stay in it, but there was a general sitting-room downstairs, and she went there and contrived to make herself as wretched as she could over a well-thumbed novel which another girl had left behind her on the previous evening.

A certain Miss Mitford, the head of this part of the establishment, wandered in, saw that Florence was quite alone, noticed how ill and wretched she looked, and sat down near her.

"Your name is, I think, Aylmer," said this good woman.

"Yes: Florence Aylmer," replied Florence, and she scarcely raised her eyes from her book.

"You don't look very well. I am going for a little drive: a friend of mine is lending me her carriage. I have plenty of room for you; will you come with me?"

"Do you mean it?" said Florence, raising languid eyes.

"I certainly do. My friend has a most comfortable carriage. We will drive to Richmond Park. What do you say?"

"That I thank you very much, and I—"

"Of course you'll come."

"Yes, I'll come," said Florence. She ran upstairs more briskly than she had done yet. The thought of the drive, and the peace of being alone with a woman who knew absolutely nothing about her, was soothing. Miss Mitford was not remarkable for her penetration of character, but she was essentially kind.

The carriage arrived and she and Florence got in. They drove for a quarter of a mile without either of them uttering a word; then the coachman drew up at a shabby house. Miss Mitford got out, ran up the steps, and rang the bell; in a moment or two three little girls with very pasty faces and lack-lustre eyes appeared.

"I am sorry I was late, dears," said Miss Mitford; "but jump in: there is room for us all in the barouche."

Florence felt now almost happy. There was no chance of Miss Mitford discovering her secret. Indeed, the superintendent of No. 12, Prince's Mansions, had not the faintest idea of enquiring into Florence's affairs. She could bestow a passing kindness on a sad-looking girl, but it was not her habit to enquire further. She chatted to the children, and Florence joined in. Presently she found herself laughing.

When they reached the park, they all alighted and sat under the trees, and Miss Mitford produced a mysterious little basket, out of which she took milk and sponge-cakes, and Florence enjoyed her feast just as much as the children did. It was seven o'clock when she arrived home again, and Edith Franks was waiting for her in the downstair hall.



CHAPTER XIX.

IN THE BALANCE.

The moment Edith saw Florence, she went up to her, seized her by the arm, and said, in an imperious voice: "You must come with me to my room immediately."

"But why?" asked Miss Aylmer, trying to release herself from the firm grip in which Edith Franks held her.

"Because I have something most important to tell you."

Florence did not reply. She had been cheered and comforted by her drive, and she found that Edith Franks, with all her kindness, had a most irritating effect upon her. There was nothing for it, however, but to comply, and the two went upstairs as far as the third story together. There they entered Edith's sitting-room. She pushed Florence down on the sofa, and, still keeping a hand on each of her shoulders, said emphatically: "Tom: read it."

"What do you mean?" was Florence's almost inane answer.

"How stupid you are!" Edith gave her a little shake. "When I am excited—I to whom it means practically nothing, why should not you be? Tom read it, and he means to show it to his chief. You are made, and I have made you. Kiss me; let me congratulate you. You will starve no longer; you will have plenty. What is more, you will have fame. You will be courted by the great; you have an honourable future in front of you. Look up! Lose that lack-lustre expression in your eyes. Oh, good gracious! the girl is ill." For Florence had turned ghastly white.

"This is a case for a doctor," said Edith Franks; "lie down—that is better." She pulled the cushions away from the sofa and pushed Florence into a recumbent position.

"I have some sal volatile here; you must drink it."

Edith rushed across the room, took the necessary bottle from her medical shelf, prepared a dose, and brought it to the half-fainting girl.

Florence sipped it slowly. The colour came back into her cheeks, and her eyes looked less dazed.

"Now you are more yourself. What was the matter with you?"

"But you—you have not given it; he—he has not shown it—"

"You really are most provoking," said Miss Franks. "I don't know why I take so much trouble for you—a stranger. I have given you what would have taken you months to secure for yourself: the most valuable introduction into the very best quarter for the disposal of your wares. Oh, you are a lucky girl. But there, you shall dine with me to-night."

"I cannot."

"Too proud, eh?"

"Oh, you don't know my position," said poor Florence.

"Nonsense! Go up to your room and have a rest. I will come for you in a quarter of an hour. I have ordered dinner for two already. If you don't eat it, it will be thrown away."

"I am afraid it will have to be thrown away! I—I don't feel well."

"You are a goose; but if you are ill, you shall stay here and I will nurse you."

"No; I think I'll go upstairs. I want to be alone."

Florence staggered across the room as she spoke. Edith Franks looked at her for a moment in a puzzled way.

"I shall expect you down to dinner," she said. "Dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour. Mind, I shall expect you."

Florence made no answer. She slowly left the room, closing the door after her, and retired to her own apartment.

Edith Franks clasped both her hands to her head.

"Well, really," she thought, "why should I put myself out about an ungrateful girl of that sort? But there, she is deeply interesting: one of those strange vagaries of genius. She is a psychological study, beyond doubt. I must see plenty of her. I have a great mind to take up psychology as my special branch of the profession; it is so deeply, so appallingly interesting. Poor girl, she has great genius! When that story is published all the world will know. I never saw Tom so excited about anything. He said: 'There is stuff in this.' He said it after he had read a page; he said it again when he had gone half-way through the manuscript; and he clapped his hands at the end and said: 'Bravo!' I know what that means from Tom. He is the most critical of men. He distrusts everything until it has proved itself good, and yet he accepted the talent of that story without a demur."

Miss Franks hurriedly moved about the room, changed her dress, smoothed her hair, washed her hands, looked at her little gun-metal watch, saw that the quarter of an hour had expired, and tripped downstairs to the dining-room.

"Will she be there, or will she not?" thought Edith Franks to herself.

She looked eagerly into the great room with its small tables covered with white cloths. There were seats in the dining-room for one hundred and fifty people.

Edith Franks, however, looked over to a certain corner, and there, at one of the tables, quietly waiting for her, and also neatly dressed, sat Florence Aylmer.

"That is right," said Miss Franks; "you are coming to your senses."

"Yes," answered Florence, "I am coming to my senses."

There was a bright flush on each of her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant: she looked almost handsome.

Edith gazed at her with admiration.

"So you are drinking in the delicious flattery: you are preparing for the fame which awaits you," said the medical student.

"I want to say one thing, Miss Franks," remarked Florence, bending forward.

"What is that?"

"When you came up this morning to my room I did not wish to give you the manuscript; you took it from me almost by force. You promised further that your brother's seeing it would mean nothing. You did not keep your word. Your brother has seen it, and, from what you tell me, he approves of it. From what you tell me further, he is going to show it in a certain quarter where its success will be more or less assured. Of course, you and he may be both mistaken, and after all the story which you think so highly of may be worth nothing; that remains to be proved."

"It is worth a great deal; the world will talk about it," said Edith Franks.

"But I don't want the world to talk of it," said Florence. "I didn't wish to be pushed and hurried as I have been. I did wrong to consult you, and yet I know you meant to be kind. You have not been kind: you have been the reverse; but you have meant to be kind, and I thank you for your intention. Things must go their own way. I have been hard pressed and I have yielded; only please do not ask me to talk about it. When your brother receives news I shall be glad to know; but even then I want to hear the fate of the manuscript without comment from you. That is what I ask. If you will promise that, I will accept your dinner. I am very proud, and it pains me to accept charity from anyone; but I will accept your dinner and be grateful to you: only will you promise not to talk of the manuscript any more?"

"Certainly, my dear," answered Edith Franks. "Have a potato, won't you?"

As Edith helped Florence to a floury potato, she exclaimed, under her breath: "A little mad, poor girl: a most interesting psychological study."



CHAPTER XX.

ROSE VIEW.

It was a most glorious Sunday, and Florence felt cheered as she dressed for her visit to Hampstead. She resolved to put all disagreeable things out of sight.

"I fell before," she said to herself, "and I am falling again. I am afraid there is nothing good in me: there is certainly nothing stable in me. I yielded to temptation when I was a girl at school, and I am yielding now. I have put myself again into the power of an unscrupulous woman. But for to-day at least I will be happy; I will banish dull care."

So she made herself look as bright and pretty as she could in a white washing dress. She wore a smart sailor hat, and, putting on some white washing gloves, ran downstairs. On one of the landings she met Edith Franks.

"Whither away?" asked that young lady.

"I am going to Hampstead to spend the day with friends."

"That is very nice. I know Hampstead well. What part are you going to?"

"Close to the heath: to people of the name of Trevor."

"Not surely to Mrs. Trevor, of Rose View?" exclaimed Edith Franks, starting back a step and raising her brows as she spoke.

"Yes."

"And do you know her son, that most charming fellow, Maurice Trevor?"

"I know him slightly."

"Oh, but this is really delightful. We have been friends with the Trevors, Tom and I, ever since we were children. This seems to be quite a new turn to our friendship, does it not?"

Florence felt herself both cold and stiff. She longed to be friendly with Edith, who was, she was well aware, all that was kind; nevertheless, a strange sensation of depression and of coming trouble was over her.

"She is kind; but she may tempt me to do what is wrong," thought poor Florence.

"I don't know the Trevors well," she answered. "I have met Mr. Trevor once or twice, but I have never even seen his mother. His mother has been kind enough to ask me to spend to-day with her. I will say good-bye now."

"Be sure you give my love to dear Mrs. Trevor, and remember me to Maurice. Tell him, with my kind regards, that I commiserate him very much."

"Why so?" asked Florence.

"Because he has had the bad luck to be adopted by a rich, eccentric old lady, and he will lose all his personality. Tell him I wouldn't be in his shoes for anything, and now ta! ta! I see you are dying to be off."

Edith went back to her room, and Florence ran downstairs, entered an omnibus which would convey her the greater part of the way to Hampstead, and arrived there a little before ten o'clock. As she was walking up the little path to the Trevors' cottage, Maurice Trevor came down to meet her.

"How do you do?" he said, shaking hands with her and taking her immediately into the house.

Mrs. Trevor was standing in the porch.

"This is Miss Aylmer, mother," said the young man.

Mrs. Trevor held out her hand, looked earnestly into Florence's face, then drew her towards her and kissed her.

"I am glad to see you, my dear," she said; "my son has told me about you. Welcome to Rose View; I hope you like the place."

Florence looked around her and gave an exclamation of surprise and delight. The house was a very small one, but it stood in a perfect bower of roses: they were climbing all over the house, and blooming in the garden: there were standard roses, yellow, white, and pink, moss-roses, the old-fashioned cabbage-rose, and Scotch roses, little white and red ones.

"I never saw anything like it," said Florence, forgetting herself in her astonishment and delight.

Mrs. Trevor watched her face.

"She is a nice girl, but she has some trouble behind," thought the widow to herself.

"We will go round the garden," she said; "it is not time for church yet. I am not able to go this morning, but Maurice will take you presently. You have just to cross the heath and you can go to a dear little church, quite in the depths of the country. I never need change of air here in my rose-bower. But come: what roses shall I pick for you?"

"I must give Miss Aylmer her flowers, as she is practically my guest," said Trevor, coming forward at that moment. He picked a moss-rose bud and a few Scotch roses, made them into a posy, and gave them to Florence. She placed the flowers in her belt; her cheeks were already bright with colour, and her eyes were dewy with happiness. She bent down several times to sniff the fragrance of the flowers. Mrs. Trevor drew her out to talk, and soon she was chatting and laughing, and looked like a girl who had not a care in the world.

"I never saw anything so sweet," she said. "How have you managed to make all these roses bloom at once?"

"I study roses; they are my specialty. I think roses are the great joy of my life," said Mrs. Trevor. But as she spoke she glanced at her stalwart, handsome son, and Florence guessed that he was his mother's idol, and wondered how she could part with him to Mrs. Aylmer.

"The church bells are beginning to ring," he said suddenly; "would you like to go to church or would you rather just wander about the heath?"

"I think I would rather stay on the heath this morning," said Florence. She coloured as she spoke. "I do not feel very churchy," she added.

"All right: we'll have our service out of doors then; we'll be back, mother, in time for lunch."



CHAPTER XXI.

AN AWKWARD POSITION.

Trevor raised the latch of the gate as he spoke, and Florence and he went out into what the girl afterwards called an enchanted world. Florence during that walk was light-hearted as a lark and forgot all her cares.

Trevor made himself a very agreeable companion. He had from the first felt a great sympathy for Florence. He was not at that time in love with her, but he did think her a specially attractive girl, and, believing that she was sorrowful, and also having a sort of latent feeling that he himself was doing her an injury by being Mrs. Aylmer's heir, he was more attentive to her and more sympathetic in his manner than he would otherwise have been.

They found a shady dell on the heath where they sat and talked of many things. It was not until it was nearly time to return home, and they saw the people coming away from the little church down in the vale, that Trevor looked at his companion and said abruptly: "I do wish you and the mother could live together. Do you think it could be managed?"

"I don't know," said Florence, starting; "for some things I should like it."

"I cannot tell you," he continued, flushing slightly as he spoke, "what a great satisfaction it would be to me. I must be frank with you. I always feel that I have done you a great injury."

"You certainly have not done me an injury; you have added to the pleasure of my life," said Florence.

"I do not suppose we shall see a great deal of each other, and I often wonder why. If I am to be Mrs. Aylmer's heir I shall have to spend most of my life with her; but then, so long as you are in the world, I ought not to hold that position."

"Oh, never mind about that," said Florence.

"She is your aunt?"

"She is my aunt by marriage. It does not matter. We don't get on together. She—she never wishes to see me nor to hear of me."

"But I wonder why; it seems very hard on you. You and your mother are poor, whilst I am no relation. Why should I usurp your place—in fact, be your supplanter?"

"You are not. If you did not have the money, someone else would. I should never be my aunt's heiress."