er sharp
eyes on her new friend's face.

"One does all sorts of things perhaps without reason; one writes as one
is impelled," said Florence.

Edith went up to her, and after a brief argument possessed herself of
the long slip of proof she was holding in her hand.

"I am going to read it now," she said; "I always said you were neurotic:
even your talents tend in that direction. Oh, good gracious! what an
extraordinary opening sentence! You are a queer girl!"

Edith read on to the end. She then handed the paper back to Florence.

"What do you think of it?" said Florence, noticing that she was silent.

"I hate it."

"I thought you would. Oh. Edith, I am glad!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Because I so cordially hate it too."

"I would not publish it if I were in your place," said Edith; "it may do
harm. It is against the woman who is struggling so bravely. It turns her
noblest feelings into ridicule. Why do you write such things, Florence?"

"One cannot help one's self; you know that," replied Florence.

"Rubbish! One can always help doing wrong. You have been queer all
through. I cannot pretend to understand you. But there, as Tom admires
it so much, I suppose it must go into the paper. Will you put it into an
envelope, and I will post it?"

Florence did so. She directed the envelope to the editor, and Edith took
it out with her.

As she was leaving the room, she turned to Florence and said: "Try and
make your next thing more healthy. I hope to goodness very few people
will read this; it is bad from first to last."

She ran downstairs. Just as she was about to drop the little packet into
the pillar-box, she glanced at her watch.

"I shall have time to go and see Tom. I don't like this thing," she said
to herself. "Miss Aylmer ought not to write what will do direct harm.
The person who has written this paper might well not believe in any God.
I don't like it. It ought not to be published. I will speak to Tom about
it. Some of the worst passages might at least be altered or expunged."

Edith hailed a hansom, was taken Citywards, and found herself in her
brother's own private room shortly before he was finishing for the day.

"Here is the work of your precious protegee," she said, flinging the
manuscript on Tom's desk. He took it up.

"Has she corrected it? That's right; I want to send it to the printer.
By the way, Edith, have you read it?"

"I grieve to say I have."

Tom Franks looked at her in