er."

This letter was received by Florence on the following morning. She was
seated at her desk, carefully copying the last production sent to her by
Bertha Keys. It was not an essay this time, but a story, and was couched
in rather milder terms than her two previous stories. Florence thrust it
into a drawer, read her mother's letter from end to end, and then,
covering her face with her hands, sat for a long time motionless.

"I am successful; but it seems to me I am casting away my own soul," she
said to herself. "I am not happy. I never thought, when I could supply
mother with as much money as she needed, when my own affairs were going
on so nicely, when my independence was so far secured, and when I was on
a certain pinnacle of success, that I could feel as I do. But nothing
gives me pleasure. Even last night, at that party which the Franks took
me to, when people came up and congratulated me, I felt stupid and
heavy. I could not answer when I was spoken to, nor carry on arguments.
I felt like a fool, and I know I acted as one; and if Mr. Franks had not
been so kind, I doubt not I should have openly disgraced myself. Oh,
dear! the way of transgressors is _very_ hard, and I hate Bertha more
than words can say."

Florence was interrupted at this pause in her meditations by a tap at
her door. She was now able to have two rooms at her command in Prince's
Mansions, and Franks, who had come to see her, was ushered into a
neatly-furnished but simple-looking sitting-room.

Florence rose to meet him.

"Are you well?" he said, staring at her.

"Why do you ask? I am perfectly well," she replied, in a tone of some
annoyance.

"I beg your pardon; you look so black under the eyes. Do you work too
hard at night?"

"I never work too hard, Mr. Franks; you are absolutely mistaken in me."

"I am glad to hear it. Is your next story ready?"

"I am finishing it."

"May I see it?"

"No, I cannot show it to you. You shall have it by to-morrow or next day
at latest."

"Do you feel inclined to do some more essays for our paper?"

"I would rather not," said Florence.

"But why so?"

"You didn't like my last paper, you know."

"Oh, I admired it for its cleverness. I didn't care for the tone. It is
unnecessary to give way to all one's feelings. When you have written
more and oftener, you will have learned the art of suppression."

"I have just had a letter from mother," said Florence; "I will show you
her postscript. You