"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."