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
Florenc