The next day very early Walter departed for Southampton; Florence went to see him safely on board. "We shall have the good little journey together," he said dismally, for he was loth enough to leave his wife now that the parting time had come. But it seemed as if the train flew along the rails in its hurry to get near the sea, and the journey was over directly. There was all the bustle of getting on board; and almost before she knew it, Florence was on her way back to London alone. As if in a dream she walked home from the station, thinking of her husband watching the sea as it widened between him and England. She was glad she had seen the ship, she could imagine him seated at the long table in the saloon, with the punkahs - useless enough at present-waving overhead, or in his cabin, looking out through the porthole at the white crests to the waves. Yes. She could see all his surroundings plainly. She gave a long sigh. She was a brave little woman, and had tried so hard not to break down before Walter, though in the last moment on board, when she had felt as if her heart would break, she had not been able altogether to help it. But now, as she walked home in the dusk without him, she felt as if she could not live through the long months of separation. "But I will, I will," she said to herself while the tears trickled down her face. "Only it is hard, for there is no one in the world like him, no one no one; and we have never been parted before." she took it from her pocket, and nearly cried again and then having entered, she stood still and wondered. There in the hall were two square boxes-boxes of the sort that were used before overland trunks came into fashion, and when Amer. ican arks were unknown. They were covered with brown holland, bordered with faded red braid and corded with thick brown cord. Stitched on to each cover was a small white card, on each of which was written in the hand Florence knew so well, Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter Hibbert. While she was still contemplating the address, a servant, who had heard her enter, came up. "Mrs. Baines has been here since eleven o'clock, ma'am," she said, "she's in the drawing-room, and has had nothing to eat all day except a cup of tea and a little toast that nurse made her have at four o'clock. She's been waiting to see you." It was evident that there had been some catastrophe. The next moment Florence had run up-stairs and entered the drawingroom. "Aunt Anne!" she exclaimed, “what has happened?" The old lady had been standing by the fireplace. Her thin white hands were bare, but she still wore her cloak and black, close-fitting bonnet, though she had thrown aside the crape veil. Her face looked worn and anxious, but a look of indignation came to her eyes as Florence entered, a last little flash of remembered insult; then she advanced with outstretched hands. Every moment too, she remembered, took him farther and farther away. She "Florence," she said, "I have come to told herself again and again how much you for advice and shelter, I have been ingood the journey would do him, how glad sulted -- and humiliated "a quaver came she was that he would get the change; but into her voice, she could not go on till human nature is human nature still, and indignation returned to give her strength. will not be controlled by argument. So" Florence," she began again, "I have she quickened her pace, resolving not to give way till she was safe in the darkness of her own room, hidden from the eyes of the servants, and then she would let her misery have its fling. She looked up at the house with a sigh. It would be so still without Walter. There was a flickering light in the drawing-room. Probably the servants had put a lamp there, for the days were growing short, it was nearly dark already. The children would be in bed, but they were certain not to be asleep, and she thought of the little shout of welcome they would give when they heard her footstep on the stair as she went up to kiss them. She let herself in with Walter's latchkeyshe kissed it as i come to you. 1-1 "Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne!" Florence said, aching with fatigue, and feeling ruefully that her longing for rest and quiet was not likely to be satisfied, yet thinking, oddly enough too, even while she spoke, of Walter going on farther and farther away across the darkening sea, "what is the matter? tell me, dear." There was a throbbing pain in her head. It was like the thud-thud of the screw on board Walter's ship. Aunt Anne raised her head and spoke firmly: 66 'My love, I have been insulted." "Insulted, Aunt Anne, but how?" "Yes, my love, insulted. I frequently had occasion to reprove the servants for their conduct, for the want of respect they showed me. The cook was abominable, and a reprimand had no effect upon her. To-day her impertinence was past endurance, I told Mrs. North so, and that she must be dismissed. Mrs. North refused refused, though her servant had forgotten what was due to me, and this morning I can't repeat her words." ready for amusement. I cannot believe that she loves her husband, or she would show more regret at his absence. I have known what a happy marriage is, Florence, and you know what it is too, my love. You can therefore understand that I thought her conduct reprehensible." "Yes," Florence said wearily, "I know, I know." Then she rang the bell and ordered tea "Well," said Florence, "but surely you to be made ready in the dining-room, a did not let a servant drive substantial tea of the sort that women love and men abhor. "No, dear Florence, it was not the cook who drove me out, I should not allow a subordinate to interfere with my life; it was Mrs. North. She has behaved cruelly to me. She listened to her servants in preference to me. I told her that they showed me no respect, that they entirely forgot what was due to me, and unless she made an example, and dismissed one of them, it would be impossible for me to stay in her house, that that, I can't repeat it all, Florence; and, my love, there were other reasons - that are impossible to repeat; but I am here I am here, homeless and miserable, and insulted. I flew to you, I knew you would be indignant, that your dear heart would feel for me." "Florence, if you cannot sympathize with me I must ask you not to discuss the matter," the old lady answered, raising her head and speaking in a tone of surprise; "there is no trouble you could have come to me with that I should not have felt about as you did." Aunt Anne had a remarkable gift for fighting her own battles, Florence thought. "But don't you see, Aunt Anne, that "I would prefer not to discuss the matter, my love," the old lady said loftily. "You are so young and inexperienced that perhaps you cannot enter into my feelings. Either the cook or I had to leave the house. There were other reasons too, I repeat, why I deemed it unadvisable to remain. Mrs. North has lately shown a levity of manner that I could not countenance; her sister is no longer with her, and her husband is thousands of miles away; yet she is always "Now rest and forget all the worries," she said gently. "You are tired and excited, try to forget everything till you have had some tea and are rested. The spare room is quite ready, and you shall go to bed early, as I will, for it has been a long day." "I know what you must have gone through," and Mrs. Baines shook her head sadly, "and that you want to be alone to think of your dear Walter. But I will only intrude on you for one night, to-morrow I will find an apartment." "You must not talk like that, for you are very welcome, Aunt Anne," Florence said gently, though she could not help inwardly chafing at the intrusion, and longing to be alone. "Tell me, love, did Walter go off comfortably?" Mrs. Baines asked, speaking with the air people sometimes speak of those who have died rather to the satisfaction of their relations. 66 Yes, he sailed a few hours ago. I have just come back from Southampton.' "I know it," Aunt Anne answered, her voice full of untold feeling; "did he take my simple gifts with him, dear?" 66 Yes, he took them," Florence answered gratefully; "but come down-stairs, Aunt Anne, you must be worn out." Then in a moment Aunt Anne recovered her old manner, the manner that had some indefinable charm in it, and looked at Florence. "Yes, my love," she said, "I am very much fatigued and thankful indeed to enjoy your hospitality again. Before I retire to rest I must write some letters, if you will permit your servant to post them." Florence had to write one or two letters also. She gave three to the little housemaid to post; as she did so, one of Aunt Anne's caught her eye. It was addressed to Alfred Wimple. "Perhaps she wanted to tell him something about the Albert Memorial," she thought wearily, and dismissed the matter from her mind. CHAPTER VI. THEN it was that Florence discovered that Aunt Anne was really a charming person to have in the house, especially with children. She was so bright, so clever with them, so full of little surprises. In her pocket there always lingered some unexpected little present, and at the tip of her tongue some quaint bit of old-world knowledge that was as interesting to grown-up folk as to the children. To see her prim figure about the place seemed to Florence like having lavender among her linen. She was useful too, ready with her fingers to darn some little place in a tablecloth that every one else had overlooked, to sew a button on Monty's little shoe, or to mend a tear in Catty's pinafore. Above all, she was so complimentary, so full of admiration, and it was quite evident that she meant with her whole heart all the pretty things she said. She did too. Walter was the son of her favorite brother, and to Florence she had really taken a fancy from the beginning. "I loved you from the first moment, my love," she said. "I shall never forget the look of happiness on your face that morning at Brighton I met you and your dear Walter together. It endeared you to me. It was a happy day," she added, with a sigh. 66 dainty slices and piled on the top of the butter as much jam as they could carry. 66 'Oh," cried the children, with gleeful surprise. "Dear Aunt Anne," exclaimed Florence, looking up when she heard it, "I never give them quite so much butter with quite so much jam! It is too rich for them, and we don't cut off the crusts." "The servants will eat them." "Indeed they will not," laughed Florence, "they don't like crusts." "You are much too good to them, love, as you are to every one. They should do as they are told, and be glad to take what they can get. I never have patience with the lower classes," she added, in the gentlest of voices. But the words gave Florence a sudden insight into the reason of Aunt Anne's collapse at Mrs. North's, a catastrophe to which the old lady never referred. The very mention of Mrs. North's name made her manner a little distant. "And then, you know," Florence said, ever careful, and now especially anxious to make the very short allowance on which she had put herself in her husband's absence hold out, "we must not let the children learn to be dainty, must we? So they must try to eat up the crusts of their bread, and we only give them a little butter when they have jam. I never had butter and jam together at all at home," and she stroked Catty's fat little hand while she went on reading her letter. Yes, a very happy day," Florence answered affectionately, remembering how ungrateful both she and dear Walter had been at the time. This was at breakfast" one morning, a week after Walter's departure. She was pouring out the coffee very quickly because she longed to open her letters, though she knew it was not possible to get yet the one he had posted from Gibraltar. Aunt Anne meanwhile was undoing a little packet that had come by post addressed to her. Catty and Monty having finished their porridge were intently watching. She stopped when she noticed the gravity of their faces. 66 My love," ," she said, in the tone of one asking a great favor, "have I your permission to give these dear children some bread and jam?" "Oh yes, of course," Florence answered, not looking up from the long letter she was reading. Aunt Anne, quick to notice, saw that it had a foreign postmark and an enclosure that looked like a cheque. Then she cut some bread and took off the crust before she spread a quantity of butter on the Grandma has written from France, my babes,” she said, looking up after a few minutes; "she sends you each a kiss and five shillings to spend.” "I shall buy a horse and be a soldier," Monty declared. "I shall buy a present for mummy and a little one for Aunt Anne," said Catty. "Bless you, my darling, for thinking of me!" the old lady said fervently, and suddenly opening a tin of Devonshire cream, she piled a mass of it on to the bread and butter and jam already, before the astonished children. Aunt Anne's nature gloried in profusion. "Why," said Florence, not noticing anything at table, "here is a letter from Madame Celestine - her name is on the seal at least. I don't owe her anything. Oh no, it isn't for me. Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter Hibbert. It is for you, Aunt Anne." "Thank you, my love." Mrs. Baines took it with an air of slight but dignified vexation. "It was remiss of your servant not to put all my letters beside me. I am sorry you should be troubled with my correspondence." "But it doesn't matter," Florence answered. "I hope you have not found her very expensive; she can be so sometimes?" and through Florence's mind there went a remembrance of the dress in which Aunt Anne had appeared on the night of the dinner-party. A little flush or something like one went across the old lady's withered cheek. "My love," she said, almost haughtily, "I have not yet given her charges my consideration. I have been too much engaged with more important matters." "I only hope she does not owe for that dress," Florence thought, but she did not dare ask any questions. "Madame Celestine is not a comfortable creditor, nor usually a small one." Then she understood Catty's and Monty's extreme silence for the past few minutes. It had suddenly dawned upon her how unusual it was. "Why, my beloved babes," she exclaimed, "what are you eating?" and she looked across laughingly at Aunt Anne. "Where did those snowy mountains of cream come from?" "They came by post, just now, my love," Mrs. Baines said firmly. "Oh, you are much too kind, Aunt Anne! but you will spoil the children, you will indeed, as well as their digestions. You are much too good to them; but we shall have to send them away if you corrupt them in this delicious manner." "It is most nutritious, I assure you," Aunt Anne answered, with great gravity, while with dogged and desperate haste she piled more and more cream on to Monty's plate. "I thought you would like it, Florence. I have ordered three pounds to be sent in one-pound tins at intervals of three days. I hoped that you would think it good for the dear children, that they would have your approbation in eating it." "Of course, of course, and I shall eat some too," Florence answered, trying to chase away Aunt Anne's earnestness; "only you are much too good to them." The old lady looked up with a tender smile on her face. "It is not possible to be good enough to your children, my darling yours and Walter's." “Dear Walter," said Florence, as she rose from the table, "I shall be glad to get his letter. Now, my monkeys, my vagabonds, my darlings, go up-stairs and tell nurse to take you out at once to see the trees and the ducks in the pond; go along, go along," and she ran playfully after the children. 66 May I go and buy my horse?" asked Monty; "and I think I shall buy a sword too. I want to kill a man." "He is just like his father!" exclaimed Aunt Anne. "What is Catty going to do with her money?" she asked. "Give it to mummy," the child answered softly. "And she is just like you, dear Florence," said the old lady, in a choking voice. "She is just like herself, and therefore like a dickie-bird, and a white rabbit, and a tortoiseshell kitten, and many other things too numerous to mention," Florence laughed, overtaking Catty and kissing her little round face; "but go, my babes, go -go and get ready, your beloved mummy wants to turn you out of doors ;" and shouting with joy the children scampered off. Florence took up the Times. "Won't you have the paper, Aunt Anne, and a quiet quarter of an hour?" "Thank you, no, my love; I rarely care to peruse it until a more leisure time of the day. With your permission I will leave you now, I have an hour or two's business out of doors; are there any com missions I could execute for you?" "No, thank you." Aunt Anne was always thoughtful, Florence said to herself. Every morning since she came this question had been asked and answered in almost the same words. "By the way, Aunt Anne, Mr. Wimple called yesterday. I am sorry I was not at home,' - and this she felt to be a fib. "He told me that he intended to do so before he left town." There was a strange light on Aunt Anne's face when she spoke of him; her niece saw it with wonder. "I dare say she takes a sort of motherly interest in him," she said to herself. "He is delicate and she has no belongings; poor old lady, how sad it must be to have no belongings, no husband, no children, no mother, no anything! I don't wonder her sympathies go out even to Mr. Wimple.' Then aloud she asked, "Is he going away for long?" "He is going to some friends near Portsmouth by the twelve o'clock train today," and Mrs. Baines glanced at the clock; "from Waterloo," she added. "Are you going to see him off, Aunt Anne?" "My love, I have an engagement in the City at one o'clock. I am going out now, but I cannot say what my movements will be between this and then." In a moment Aunt Anne's voice was a shade distant. Florence had only asked the question as a little joke, and with no notion that Aunt Anne would take it seriously. 66 "I didn't mean to be curious," she said, and stroked the old lady's shoulder. "I know you did not, my darling. You are the last person in the world to commit a solecism," - and again there came a smile to Aunt Anne's face. It made Florence stoop and kiss her. "And you did tell me of your expedition to the Albert Memorial, remember," she went on wickedly; "and I know that you and Mr. Wimple are very sympathetic to each other." "You are right, Florence. We have many tastes and sympathies in unison. We find it pleasant to discuss them together. Good-bye, my love; do not wait luncheon for me. I shall probably partake of it with a friend"—and she left the room. Florence took up the Times again, but she could not read for thinking uneasily of the bill which she felt convinced Madame Celestine had just sent to 'Aunt Anne. "I wish I could pay it," she thought; "but I can't, in spite of mamma's present this morning. It is probably at least fifteen pounds. Besides, Aunt Anne is such a peculiar old lady that the chances are she would be offended if I did." She put down the paper and sat thinking for a few minutes. Then she went to the writing-table in the corner by the fireplace, unlocked the corner drawer and took out a little china bowl in which she was in the habit of keeping the money she had in the house. Four pounds in gold and a five-pound note. She took out the note, put in a cheque, locked the drawer and waited. When she heard the soft footsteps of Aunt Anne descending the stairs she went to the door nervously, uncertain how what she was going to do would be received. Mrs. Baines was dressed ready to go out. She was a little smarter than usual. Round her throat there was some soft white muslin tied in a large bow that fell to her chest and relieved the sombreness of her attire. The heavy crape veil she usually wore was replaced by a thinner one that had little spots of jet upon it. “Aunt Anne, you look as if you were going to a party." The old lady was almost confused, like a person who is found out in some roguish mischief of which she is half, but only half ashamed. "My love, I only go to your parties," she said; "there are no others in the world that would tempt me." "Can you come to me for five minutes before you start? I won't keep you longer." "Yes, with pleasure," Aunt Anne answered; "but it must only be for five minutes, if you will excuse me for saying so, for I have an appointment that I should deeply regret not being able to keep." Florence led the old lady to an easychair and shut the door. Then she knelt down by her side, saying humbly but with a voice full of joy, for she was delighted at what she was going to do, if Aunt Anne would only let her do it: "I want to tell you that that I had a letter from my mother this morning." "I know, my love. I hope she is well, and that you have no anxiety about her." "Oh no." "She must long to see you, Florence dear." "She does, she is such a dear mother and she is coming to England in two or three weeks' time." "Her society will be a great solace to you." "Yes; but what I wanted to tell you is that she has sent me a present." "I hope it is a substantial one," Aunt Anne said courteously. "Indeed it is." "It rejoices me greatly to hear it, my love." "It is money—a cheque. My mother says she sends it to cheer me up after losing Walter." "She knew how your tender heart would miss him, my darling; " but she was watching Florence intently with a hungry look that a second self seemed trying to control. "And as I have had a present of filthy lucre, Aunt Anne, and am delighted and not too proud to take it, so I want you to have a present of filthy lucre and not to be too proud to take it; but just to have this little five-pound note because you love me and for any little odd and end on which you may find it convenient to spend it. It would be so sweet of you to let me share my present as my children shared the cream with you." Florence bent her head and kissed the old lady's hands as she pushed the bit of crisp paper into them. Aunt Anne was not one whit offended, it seemed for a mo |