y fair
that your young mind should be strained to this extent. And if you
don't win the Scholarship?"

"Ah, if I don't, Aunt Susan will not need you to ask me much to Cherry
Court Park. She will wash her hands of me."

"Indeed, this is disturbing."

"I ought not to have told you, and you must pretend that you do not
know."

"I shall say nothing, of course; all the same, I am sorry."

Sir John sat very thoughtful for a moment. After a long pause he spoke.

"I ought not to give you any special advantage over the other girls,"
he said, "but suppose I do this?"

"What?" asked Florence, looking into his face.

"Suppose I have Mrs. Aylmer as my guest and allow you to choose
another? What about your mother, Miss Aylmer?"

"Oh, do you mean it?" said Florence; her face flushed, and then turned
pale. She had a wild, wild thought that even if she failed her mother
would not turn from her. She had a choking sensation in her throat,
which made her feel that even in the moment of absolute defeat the
little Mummy's kisses would be supporting, cheering, encouraging.
Tears brimmed into her eyes. "You are very good," she said.

"Then I'll do it; give me your mother's address. She shall be your
guest; the other Mrs. Aylmer shall be mine. And now cheer up, my dear;
we can never do more than our best."

Sir John turned aside, and soon afterwards the little party broke up.

That night Florence hardly slept. At a very early hour she awoke. She
had prayed her prayer of the night before; she had asked God to help
her. As to not winning the Scholarship, that was absolutely and
completely out of the question. She must win it. The thought of
disgrace was too intolerable; she must, she would win it. She
determined to rise now and test her powers of composition. It was
between five and six in the morning. She rose very softly, got into
her clothes, and stole out of the dormitory.

The light was just beginning to dawn, but there was not light enough to
work. Florence slipped softly down to the oak parlor; having secured a
candle and a box of matches, she lit the candle and placed it on her
desk, and, taking out a sheet of manuscript paper, she pressed her face
on her hands, once again uttered a wild, passionate prayer, and then,
dipping the pen in the ink, waited for inspiration.

"Heroism," she said, under her breath. "What did it mean?" All that
it really meant rushed over her--self-denial, self-abnegation, the