"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?"
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?"