that the
bonfires were to be lit.

"Florence, Florence, come here!" said her mother, and Florence ran
across the hall and buried her face in her mother's lap.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE STING OF THE SERPENT.

The day was over, the long, exciting, exhausting evening had come to an
end. The girls had danced to their hearts' content, had played and
romped, and congratulated Florence with all the heartiness of which
their frank natures were capable. They had wandered through the
grounds in groups to watch the bonfires, they had partaken of the most
delicious supper the heart of girl could conceive, and at last, worn
out and intensely happy, they had retired to rest.

Three long dormitories had been fitted up for their occupation, but the
lucky three had each a very small room to herself. Florence was glad
of that. Yes, if she could be glad of anything on that awful, terrible
evening, it was the knowledge that she might be alone, all alone for
some hours. During those hours she could think, could collect her
thoughts, could face the position which she had in future to occupy.

In the pleasure and delight of the evening no one had specially noticed
how little Florence spoke. Mrs. Aylmer the less, as the mother of the
heroine, minced about with her head in the air, so elated, so excited,
so carried out of herself, that not the grandest county lady present
had power to awe her.

"Yes, I am the mother of the dear child. Oh, I always knew that she
was specially gifted," Mrs. Aylmer was heard to say. "She could learn
from the time she was a baby in the most marvellous way, but even I was
astonished at her essay; it wrung tears from my eyes."

"It was a very noble work," said the Countess of Archester, slightly
bowing her own queenly head, and giving Mrs. Aylmer a half-quizzical,
half-pitying glance. "How the girl wrote it, how that woman's daughter
could have written such an essay, is a puzzle to me," said the Countess
afterwards to her husband.

But Mrs. Aylmer was unconscious that any such remarks were uttered.
She was thinking of her own dazzling future, of what Dawlish would mean
to her in the time to come, of what Sukey would say, what Ann Pratt
would say, what other neighbors would say. All was indeed well; she
was the mother of a genius, a girl who had achieved such high honor
that her name in future would always be remembered in the neighborhood
of Cherry Court School. Yes, it was a proud moment for Mr