"My dear Florence, I ask in order to reassure you that, sensitive and keen as you think your little inward monitor, it is at best but a poor weakling. Now, the conscience of Kitty and the conscience of Mary would have risen up in hot protest, and the temptation would not have been a temptation to them, but it was to you because of the poor health of your little monitor. Believe me, the monitor is in a bad way, and if you will struggle through the remorse of the next couple of days it will simply die."
"And then I shall be lost," said Florence, with a frightened look in her face.
"Oh, you will live a very comfortable life if you take care of your health; you have a good sixty years before you. You can do a good deal in sixty years, and now for goodness' sake stop talking about the matter. It is done and cannot be undone. I want to say something to you myself."
"But at the end of sixty years I shall die all the same," said Florence. "Oh, Bertha, I go mad when I think of dying. Oh, Bertha! Bertha!"
Even Bertha felt a momentary sense of terror when she looked into Florence's eyes. She backed away from her and stood by the table.
"Come, come, my dear," she said, "you'll get over all this," but still she avoided looking at Florence's eyes.
"What do you want with me?" said Florence at last, restlessly; "I must sleep. I wish you would go away."
"I will when I have made my request."
"What is that?"
"I want you to give me twenty pounds."