As Florence slowly, very slowly, as if each step was weighted with lead, crept forward to the front of the dais without any of that look of triumph and pleasure which ought to have marked her face at such a moment, Bertha Keys threw back her own head and allowed her watchful light blue eyes to follow the girl, while a smile of sardonic import curled her lips. When Florence got opposite Sir John she suddenly, as if overpowered by intense emotion, fell on her knees. She could not have done anything which would more completely bring down the house. Cheers, acclamations, hurrahs, every sort of congratulation filled the air. When they had subsided for a moment and Mrs. Aylmer the less had released the hand of Mrs. Aylmer the great, which she had clutched frantically in her intense agitation, Sir John took Florence's hand and with a slight motion raised her to her feet. "Stand up, Florence Aylmer," he said; "you have done splendidly; I congratulate you. The Scholarship is yours, nobly won, splendidly won. Take your honors, my dear." As he spoke he stepped to the table and brought back a small crown of filigree silver. It was a simple wreath in the form of bay-leaves. He laid it on Florence's dark head. "This is yours," he said; "wear it with dignity; keep the great, the good, the true always before you. And this also is yours," he said. He slipped a thin gold chain with the ruby locket attached round Florence's neck. He then placed the purse which contained the Scholarship money for the ensuing year, and the parchment scroll, in her hand. "And now, young people," he said, "let us all cheer three times the winner of the Scholarship." The girls cheered as lustily as schoolboys, the band in the corner burst forth with the gay strains of "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and after a brief signal from Sir John there was suddenly heard outside the report of a small cannon, which was the intimation 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.