"Good, I should say; it interested me immensely. I was full of worries
and it seemed to lift them and smooth them away. I forgot them for the
time being. Yes, I should say that essay was well written, but I
didn't think about the writing at all."

"Ah, then it was well written," said Bertha. "But it is nearly tea
time; don't let us say anything more about it now. I will tell you
when we are walking to Hilchester."

She caught up the little magazine, thrust it into her pocket, and left
the room without glancing at Florence again.

"What a queer girl she is!" thought Florence to herself. She had run
up to her room to wash her hands, for tea, and presently joined her
companions in the tea-room.

Half an hour later Florence and Bertha were on their way to Hilchester.
Both girls were feeling anxious. Florence had that weight of care ever
at her heart, and Bertha was wondering by what means she could smuggle
the letter to Mrs. Aylmer out of her daughter's hands. Think and think
as she would, however, she could see no way of preventing that
postoffice order being obtained, of its being slipped into the
envelope, and put into the post. She was noted for her ready wit,
however, and ingenuity, and she could only now trust to what she termed
a lucky chance. One thing, however, was more important than ever; she
must as quickly as possible get Florence into her power.

"Well," she said, as the two girls strolled arm in arm down the shady
lane towards Hilchester, "you wonder, don't you, why I showed you 'The
Flower of Youth' this morning?"

"I had forgotten all about it," said Florence, frowning.

"I will tell you now. You admired that little paper on a contented
heart!"

"It interested me," said Florence, "but why do you harp so about it? I
have so much to think of, it is rather bothering for you to go back
again and again to the same subject. The writer of that paper has not
a contented heart."

"How clever of you to say that, for it is true."

"True! Do you know the writer?"

"I happen to know her."

"You know a real live author! Are you joking, Bertha? You must be
joking."

"I know her," said Bertha, casting down her eyes, and a modest
expression creeping over her face, "I know her well, for she--don't
start away from me, Flo--she happens to be your humble servant."

"Now you must be joking! You are the author of 'The Contented Heart'?"

"I am, dear. I got five shillings for that little essay