"What do you mean? I tell you I will get the Scholarship." "You won't unless you write a decent essay." "Oh, Bertha, you drive me nearly mad; I tell you I will get it." "All the willing and the wishing in the world won't make the impossible come to pass," retorted Bertha, and now she once more threaded her darning-needle and took out another stocking from the basket. "Then what is to be done?" said Florence. "Do you know what will happen if I fail?" "No; tell me," said Bertha, and now she put down her stocking and looked full into the face of her young companion. "Aunt Susan will give me up. I have told you about Aunt Susan." "Ah, yes, have you not? I can picture her, the rich aunt with the generous heart, the aunt who is devoted to the niece, and small wonder, for you are a most attractive girl, Florence. The aunt who provides all the pretty dresses, and the pocket-money, and the good things, and who has promised to take you into society by and by, to make you a great woman, who will leave you her riches eventually. It is a large stake, my dear Florence, and worth sacrificing a great deal to win." "And you have not touched on the most important point of all," said Florence. "It is this: I hate that rich aunt who all the time means so much to me, and I love, I adore, I worship my mother. You would think nothing of my mother, Bertha, for she is not beautiful, and she is not great; she is perhaps what you would call commonplace, and she has very, very little to live on, and that very little she owes to my aunt, but all the same I would almost give my life for my mother, and if I fail in the Scholarship my mother will suffer as much as I. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I am an unhappy girl!" Bertha rose abruptly, walked over to Florence, and laid her hand on her shoulder. "Now, look here," she said, "you can win that Scholarship if you like." "How so? What do you mean?" "Are you willing to make a great sacrifice to win it?" "A great sacrifice?" said Florence, wearily; "what can you mean?" "I will tell you presently, but first of all amuse yourself by reading this." "Oh, I am in no mood to amuse myself; I must face my terrible position." "Ah, I see you have written a letter to your mother; shall I put it in the postbag for you?" "No, thank you; I mean to walk into Hilchester myself presently. I want to post that letter myself. I am anxious at not hearing from mother; she has never acknowledged my last postoffice order. I mean to send her another to-day, and I want to post the letter myself." "Then I will walk into Hilchester with you after tea. We shall have plenty of time to get there and back before dark." "Thank you," said Florence; "that will do very well." "Now, then, read this. Put your essay away for the present. I can see by the expression on your face that you have a terrible headache." "But why should I read that, Bertha? What is it?"