determined to help herself, to write to Primrose for money.

These were hard days for the little girl--days which were to prove the
stuff she was made of to the very uttermost--but doubtless they gave
her, as all anxious days of pain bravely borne do, a valuable
experience and a depth of character which she could not otherwise have
acquired.

The lesson she was to learn, however, was a painful one, and its
sharpness was to be felt very quickly.

Jasmine's hope of hopes lay in her beloved manuscript. That story, the
first-fruits of her young genius, must surely make her purse bulky,
and must wreathe her little brow with laurels. That story, too, was to
refund poor Poppy the money she had lent, and was to enable Jasmine to
live in comfort during her sister's absence.

One day, about ten days after Primrose had gone to Rosebury, Jasmine
stood by the windows of the Palace Beautiful to watch the postman. He
was coming up the street, and Jasmine greatly, greatly hoped he would
stop at Miss Egerton's and drop into the letter-box, perhaps, a letter
from Primrose, and more delightful still, a roll of proofs of her dear
story. The postman, however, passed on his way, and gave his loud
rat-tat at the doors to right and the doors to left, but neither
sounded the bell nor gave his double-knock at Miss Egerton's door.
Jasmine sighed deeply, and retiring from the window, sat down to her
frugal breakfast. She looked pale, and her eyes were not as bright and
starry as usual. Presently she took out her purse and looked at its
contents. This was Thursday. She had dressed a dinner-table on Monday,
and had received seven and sixpence. Her purse now contained three