hose moments the inmost feeling of the heart has been _humility_ rather
than pride. He alone knows his own limitations, his own weakness; he
trembles lest he may prove unworthy of the praise he has won. As the
first delirious moments passed by, Dreda was amazed to feel a sense of
depression chilling her blood. She questioned herself as to its cause,
and discovered that it arose from a new and disagreeable doubt of her
own capacities. Mr Rawdon thought her very, very clever; but was
she--_was_ she really? He believed that she could write books--long
books of hundreds of pages, like the one lying on her lap; many books--
one after another--all different, about different people, different
things. Could she do it? Was her brain really full enough, wise
enough, original enough for such a strain? Face to face with herself
Dreda experienced some horrible moments of doubt. It had been so
difficult to write that one essay--of herself she had seemed to have no
ideas. She had merely pounced on what other people had written and said
and rearranged their words. "I am quick, I am sharp. I am what they
call _ready_," said Dreda to herself in that rare moment of modesty;
"but I am not really clever. I don't think thoughts of my very own like
Susan. It's all a mistake. I shall fail, and everyone will know."

She began to tremble again, and the form creaked behind her. Some one
edged nearer and pressed a supporting arm against her side. It was
Susan. _Dear_ Susan! If she had been cross and jealous it would have
spoiled those first wonderful moments of triumph. Dreda remembered her
own prediction of how she would have felt had positions been reversed,
and pressed lovingly against the thin little arm. Her eye fell on the
sheets of manuscript folded within the book on her lap, and at the sight
she knew a returning thrill of confidence. After all Mr Rawdon was a
better judge than herself--he would not have spoken as he did if he had
not been sure. It was one of the signs of greatness to distrust
oneself.

Dreda smiled, and let her fingers touch the paper with caressing
touches. She turned back a corner of the sheet and read some scattered
words; even in this short time they seemed unfamiliar, and she searched
mentally for the context. It refused to be recalled. She lifted
another corner, and a third; her hand trembled, she turned a fourth
corner; her fingers dropped the paper, and clenched themselves upon her
knee,