tter. You will be well paid. I have the
editor's permission to offer you twelve guineas. Surely you will not
refuse such a valuable cheque."

Florence looked with almost vacant eyes at the cheque which was lying on
the table near her. The whole thing seemed like black magic.

"I suppose I must try," she said; "I have never written any prose worth
reading in my life. You will be dreadfully disappointed; I know you
will."

"I am quite certain we shall not be disappointed; anyhow, I am going to
risk it. You must not go back on your promise. Write your paper
to-morrow morning when you are fresh; then post it to me in the evening.
Good-bye. I am awfully obliged to you."

The young journalist took his departure before Florence had time to
realise what she had done. She heard his steps descending the stairs,
and then turned with lack-leisure eyes to Edith.

"What have I done?" she cried.

"Done?" said Edith, in a tone of some impatience. "Why, your duty, of
course. You could not refuse Tom after all his kindness to you. Where
would you be but for him--but for me? Do you suppose that, just because
you are clever, you would have reached the position you have done if it
had not been for my brother? You must do your very best for him."

"Oh, don't scold me, please, Edith," said poor Florence.

"I don't mean to; but really your queer ways of accepting Tom's favours
exasperate me now and then."

"Perhaps I had better go to my own room," said Florence. "I am in your
way, am I not?"

"When you talk nonsense you are. When you are sensible I delight to have
you here. Lie down on the sofa once more, and go on reading this last
novel of George Eliot's: it will put some grit into you."

Edith returned once more to her task, lit a strong lamp which she had
got for this special purpose, put on her magnifying-glasses, adjusted
her microscope, and set to work.

Florence knew that she was lost to all externals for the next hour or
so. She herself took up her book and tried to read. Half an hour before
this book had interested her, now she found it dry as sawdust; she could
not follow the argument nor interest herself in the tale. She let it
drop on her lap, and stared straight before her. How was she to do that
which she said she would do? Her crutch was no longer available. The
ghost who really supplied all her brilliant words and felicitous turns
of speech and quaint ideas was not to be secured on any terms
whatsoever. What cou