"What?" asked Florence, looking into his face.
"Suppose I have Mrs. Aylmer as my guest and allow you to choose another? What about your mother, Miss Aylmer?"
"Oh, do you mean it?" said Florence; her face flushed, and then turned pale. She had a wild, wild thought that even if she failed her mother would not turn from her. She had a choking sensation in her throat, which made her feel that even in the moment of absolute defeat the little Mummy's kisses would be supporting, cheering, encouraging. Tears brimmed into her eyes. "You are very good," she said.
"Then I'll do it; give me your mother's address. She shall be your guest; the other Mrs. Aylmer shall be mine. And now cheer up, my dear; we can never do more than our best."
Sir John turned aside, and soon afterwards the little party broke up.
That night Florence hardly slept. At a very early hour she awoke. She had prayed her prayer of the night before; she had asked God to help her. As to not winning the Scholarship, that was absolutely and completely out of the question. She must win it. The thought of disgrace was too intolerable; she must, she would win it. She determined to rise now and test her powers of composition. It was between five and six in the morning. She rose very softly, got into her clothes, and stole out of the dormitory.
The light was just beginning to dawn, but there was not light enough to work. Florence slipped softly down to the oak parlor; having secured a candle and a box of matches, she lit the candle and placed it on her desk, and, taking out a sheet of manuscript paper, she pressed her face on her hands, once again uttered a wild, passionate prayer, and then, dipping the pen in the ink, waited for inspiration.
"Heroism," she said, under her breath. "What did it mean?" All that it really meant rushed over her—self-denial, self-abnegation, the noble courage which comes to those who think of others, not themselves. "I cannot write," she said, passionately. She said the words aloud, dashing down her pen and making a blot on the fair sheet of manuscript paper. At that moment the door was opened and Bertha came in.
"I thought I heard a noise," she said; "so it is you? What are you doing there, Florence?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing; but why have you come to tempt me?" said Florence. She raised two haggard eyes to the pupil teacher's face.