at sacrifice?" said Florence, wearily; "what can you mean?"

"I will tell you presently, but first of all amuse yourself by reading
this."

"Oh, I am in no mood to amuse myself; I must face my terrible position."

"Ah, I see you have written a letter to your mother; shall I put it in
the postbag for you?"

"No, thank you; I mean to walk into Hilchester myself presently. I
want to post that letter myself. I am anxious at not hearing from
mother; she has never acknowledged my last postoffice order. I mean to
send her another to-day, and I want to post the letter myself."

"Then I will walk into Hilchester with you after tea. We shall have
plenty of time to get there and back before dark."

"Thank you," said Florence; "that will do very well."

"Now, then, read this. Put your essay away for the present. I can see
by the expression on your face that you have a terrible headache."

"But why should I read that, Bertha? What is it?"

Bertha had thrust into Florence's hand a small magazine. It was called
"The Flower of Youth," and had a gay little cover of bright pink.
There were one or two pictures inside, rather badly done, for
black-and-white drawings in cheap magazines were not a special feature
of the early seventies. The letterpress was also printed on poor
paper, and the whole get-up of the little three-penny weekly was
shabby. Nevertheless, Florence glanced over it with a momentary
awakening of interest in her eyes.

"I never heard of 'The Flower of Youth' before," she said. "Is it a
well-known magazine?"

"It is one of the first magazines of the day," said Bertha, in a proud
voice; "will you read this little paper?"

Florence's eyes lighted upon a short essay. It was called "The
Contented Heart," and her first glance at it made her sigh.

"My heart is so terribly discontented I don't want to read about the
contented heart just now," she said.

"Oh, but I do wish you would; it is not long, Florence."

Urged by a peculiar look in Bertha's eyes, Florence did read the short
essay. It was couched in plain language and was forcible and to a
certain extent clever. It occupied but a couple of pages, and having
once begun, Florence read on to the end without a pause.

"Well," she said at last, "I should judge by that writing that the
author had not a contented mind. It seems to say a great deal about
things the other way round."

"Ah, but how do you judge the writing? Is that good or bad?"