"My dear friends--It is my privilege this afternoon--" It was not possible to listen to an address at this supreme moment of realisation-- even the words of Mr Rawdon himself were a meaningless jargon in Dreda's ears. Someone tried to take the books from her, but she clung tightly to the volume containing the precious essay which had brought this triumph into her life. Such a wonderful essay that on the strength of it one of the greatest of living authors had confidently prophesied a worldwide reputation. She, Dreda Saxon, an author whom strange people talked about, whose name appeared familiarly in newspapers and magazines! She herself had dreamed of such fairy tales, had expatiated on their probability to sceptical friends; but now that Mr Rawdon had prophesied the same thing she was none the less surprised and tremulous. He who has experienced what the world calls triumph knows well that at those moments the inmost feeling of the heart has been _humility_ rather than pride. He alone knows his own limitations, his own weakness; he trembles lest he may prove unworthy of the praise he has won. As the first delirious moments passed by, Dreda was amazed to feel a sense of depression chilling her blood. She questioned herself as to its cause, and discovered that it arose from a new and disagreeable doubt of her own capacities. Mr Rawdon thought her very, very clever; but was she--_was_ she really? He believed that she could write books--long books of hundreds of pages, like the one lying on her lap; many books-- one after another--all different, about different people, different things. Could she do it? Was her brain really full enough, wise enough, original enough for such a strain? Face to face with herself Dreda experienced some horrible moments of doubt. It had been so difficult to write that one essay--of herself she had seemed to have no ideas. She had merely pounced on what other people had written and said and rearranged their words. "I am quick, I am sharp. I am what they call _ready_," said Dreda to herself in that rare moment of modesty; "but I am not really clever. I don't think thoughts of my very own like Susan. It's all a mistake. I shall fail, and everyone will know." She began to tremble again, and the form creaked behind her. Some one edged nearer and pressed a supporting arm against her side. It was Susan. _Dear_ Susan! If she had been cross and jealous it would have spoiled those first wonderful moments of triumph. Dreda remembered her own prediction of how she would have felt had positions been reversed, and pressed lovingly against the thin little arm. Her eye fell on the sheets of manuscript folded within the book on her lap, and at the sight she knew a returning thrill of confidence. After all Mr Rawdon was a better judge than herself--he would not have spoken as he did if he had not been sure. It was one of the signs of greatness to distrust oneself.