; not much, you
will say, but better than nothing. The editor praised me and asked for
more. I write occasionally in 'The Flower of Youth,' and when I am
very hard up I am glad of the few shillings my writings bring me."

"Then you are a real genius," said Florence "and I respect you."

"I am glad you respect me; I always had a gift for writing."

"I should like to read your essay, 'The Contented Heart,' again."

"You shall, dear, you shall. I have always said that you could
understand me, Florence, but you must not reveal my secret. I would
not have it known in the school for worlds that I am an author. It
would be fatal."

"But why? Are you not proud of the fact?"

"Oh, yes, I am proud of it, but perhaps Mrs. Clavering might not
approve. People have strange ideas in these days. They think when a
girl puts herself into print she makes herself too public."

"But they can't think that. Why, they would make you into a perfect
heroine; you are a great, great genius, Bertha."

"I am glad you think I have a little talent," said Bertha, in a modest
voice.

"But it is a great deal more. Have you ever written stories?"

"A few; but I have never published any."

"Some day you will write a great book, a book that will live. You will
be a second Currer Bell."

"Ah, how I adore 'Jane Eyre,'" said Bertha, in a low, intense voice.
"Currer Bell has a great soul; she lifts the curtain, she reveals to
you her heart."

"I wish I could read 'Jane Eyre' again," said Florence. "I read it
once when I was at home for the holidays, but Mrs. Clavering does not
approve of novels."

"Mrs. Clavering is a little old-fashioned. Let us walk quickly,
Florence. Do you know that I write poetry, too?"

"Oh, then you are a tremendous genius."

"I have a little talent," replied Bertha once more; "but now, Florence,
I have a suggestion to offer."

There was something in her tone which caused Florence's heart to beat;
she seemed to guess all of a sudden what was coming.

Bertha turned and gazed at her. "Look here," she said, "I don't do
things without a reason. I am anxious to be your friend because--well,
because I do like you, and also because I think you may be useful to me
by and by."

"I am sure I cannot imagine what you mean, for it is not in my power to
be useful to anyone. Your friendship for me must be disinterested,
Bertha."

"That is as it may be," answered Bertha, in a dubious voice; "we will
say nothin