no help for it, however.

With a shudder Florence arose, crossed the room, unlocked the door, and
flung it open.

"I am so tired, Bertha," she said; "must you see me to-night?"

"I am sorry you are tired," replied Bertha, "but I must see you
to-night."

Bertha slowly entered the room. When Florence shut the door Bertha
turned the key in the lock.

"What are you doing that for?" said Florence.

"Because I do not wish to be interrupted; I want to see you alone."

"But I wish you would not lock the door; it is quite unnecessary--no
one will come here at present."

"I make certainty sure--that is all," said Bertha. "Don't fuss about
the lock. Now, then, Florence, I want to have a straight talk with
you; you understand?"

"I suppose I do; but I don't think I can comprehend anything to-night."

"Oh, yes, you can, you certainly can; you must pull yourself together.
You went through that ordeal very well, let me tell you. How do you
feel now?"

"Miserable," said Florence.

Bertha went up close to her, sat down by her, and, suddenly putting her
hand under Florence's chin, raised her face, and looked into her eyes.

"Bah!" she said, "it was a pity I did it for you; you are not worth it."

"What do you mean?" said Florence, turning pale.

"Because you are not; I don't believe you'll go through with it even
now. Bah! such glory, such honor, such a proud moment, and to say you
are miserable! May I ask what you are miserable about?"

"Because I have sacrificed my honor; because I am the meanest, most
horrid girl on God's earth," said Florence, with passion. "Because the
Scholarship so won turns to dust and ashes in my mouth.
Because--because of Kitty, little Kitty, who wanted really what I have
so basely taken from her. Oh, I hate myself and I hate you, Bertha.
Why did I ever meet you?"

Florence was past tears, a dry sob rose in her throat, it half choked
her for a moment, then she stood up and wrung her hands.

"Go away, please, Bertha; leave me now; I cannot have you."

"You can put things right, of course, according to your idea of right,"
said Bertha, in a sulky voice; "you can go to Sir John and tell him
what has happened; you can do that if you please."

"I cannot--you know I cannot."

"I certainly do know you cannot," said Bertha. "Well, now, my dear, we
will leave off heroics; it is all very fine for you to talk of your
conscience, but I don't think that little monitor within is of a very