Bertha had thrust into Florence's hand a small magazine. It was called "The Flower of Youth," and had a gay little cover of bright pink. There were one or two pictures inside, rather badly done, for black-and-white drawings in cheap magazines were not a special feature of the early seventies. The letterpress was also printed on poor paper, and the whole get-up of the little three-penny weekly was shabby. Nevertheless, Florence glanced over it with a momentary awakening of interest in her eyes. "I never heard of 'The Flower of Youth' before," she said. "Is it a well-known magazine?" "It is one of the first magazines of the day," said Bertha, in a proud voice; "will you read this little paper?" Florence's eyes lighted upon a short essay. It was called "The Contented Heart," and her first glance at it made her sigh. "My heart is so terribly discontented I don't want to read about the contented heart just now," she said. "Oh, but I do wish you would; it is not long, Florence." Urged by a peculiar look in Bertha's eyes, Florence did read the short essay. It was couched in plain language and was forcible and to a certain extent clever. It occupied but a couple of pages, and having once begun, Florence read on to the end without a pause. "Well," she said at last, "I should judge by that writing that the author had not a contented mind. It seems to say a great deal about things the other way round." "Ah, but how do you judge the writing? Is that good or bad?" "Good, I should say; it interested me immensely. I was full of worries and it seemed to lift them and smooth them away. I forgot them for the time being. Yes, I should say that essay was well written, but I didn't think about the writing at all." "Ah, then it was well written," said Bertha. "But it is nearly tea time; don't let us say anything more about it now. I will tell you when we are walking to Hilchester." She caught up the little magazine, thrust it into her pocket, and left the room without glancing at Florence again. "What a queer girl she is!" thought Florence to herself. She had run up to her room to wash her hands, for tea, and presently joined her companions in the tea-room. Half an hour later Florence and Bertha were on their way to Hilchester. Both girls were feeling anxious. Florence had that weight of care ever at her heart, and Bertha was wondering by what means she could smuggle the letter to Mrs. Aylmer out of her daughter's hands. Think and think as she would, however, she could see no way of preventing that postoffice order being obtained, of its being slipped into the envelope, and put into the post. She was noted for her ready wit, however, and ingenuity, and she could only now trust to what she termed a lucky chance. One thing, however, was more important than ever; she must as quickly as possible get Florence into her power.