"Well," she said, as the two girls strolled arm in arm down the shady lane towards Hilchester, "you wonder, don't you, why I showed you 'The Flower of Youth' this morning?" "I had forgotten all about it," said Florence, frowning. "I will tell you now. You admired that little paper on a contented heart!" "It interested me," said Florence, "but why do you harp so about it? I have so much to think of, it is rather bothering for you to go back again and again to the same subject. The writer of that paper has not a contented heart." "How clever of you to say that, for it is true." "True! Do you know the writer?" "I happen to know her." "You know a real live author! Are you joking, Bertha? You must be joking." "I know her," said Bertha, casting down her eyes, and a modest expression creeping over her face, "I know her well, for she--don't start away from me, Flo--she happens to be your humble servant." "Now you must be joking! You are the author of 'The Contented Heart'?" "I am, dear. I got five shillings for that little essay; 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."