when a
work which must so largely be a work of imagination was required of her.

It was a half-holiday in the school, and Mary Bateman and Kitty
Sharston were not sharing the oak parlor with Florence. They were out
in the cherry orchard; their gay voices and merry laughter might have
been heard echoing away through the open window.

Florence sighed heavily. As she did so she heard the handle of the
door turn and Bertha Keys came softly in. Bertha brought a basket with
her. It contained some stockings belonging to the little ones which
she was expected to darn. She sat down on the low window-ledge and,
threading her needle, proceeded to work busily. She did not glance in
Florence's direction, although Florence knew well that she was aware of
her presence, and in all probability was secretly watching her.

The silence in the room was not broken for several minutes. Bertha
continued to draw her needle in and out of the little socks she was
darning. Once or twice she glanced out of the open window, and once or
twice she cast a long, sly glance in the direction of Florence's bent
head. The scratch of Florence's pen over the paper now and then
reached her ears. At last Florence stopped her work abruptly, leant
back in her chair, stretched out her arms behind her head, uttered a
profound yawn which ended in a sigh, and then, turning round, she spoke.

"I wish to goodness, Bertha," she said, "you wouldn't sit there just
like a statue; you fidget me dreadfully."

"Would you rather I went out of the room, dear?" said Bertha, gently.

"No, no, of course not; only do you mind sitting so that I can see you?
I hate to have anyone at my back."

Bertha very quietly moved her seat. The oak parlor had many windows,
and she now took one which exactly faced Florence. As she did so she
said, in a very quiet, insinuating sort of voice, "How does the essay
on Heroism proceed?"

"Oh, it does not proceed a bit," said Florence; "I cannot master it. I
am not a heroine, and how can I write about one? I think it was a very
shabby trick on the part of Sir John Wallis to set us such a theme."

"Don't worry about it if your head aches," said Bertha. "You can only
do work of that sort if you feel calm and in a good humor. Above all
things, for work of the imaginative order you must have confidence in
yourself."

"Then if I wait for the day when I have confidence in my own power and
feel perfectly calm, the essay will never b