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 te