ll 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