"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.