"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.
"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."