“You see it was rough upon him having his morning spoilt. A man who lives in the country like that generally gets wrapped up in his surroundings. I suppose I must have known that Aunt Anne was at Rottingdean,” he went on; “but if so, I had forgotten it. She quarrelled with my father and every one else because she was always quite unable to keep any money. There was a great deliberation in the family a few years ago, when it was announced that Aunt Anne was destitute and no one wanted to keep her.” “But had she no money of her own?” “She had a little, but she lived on the capital till it was gone, and there was an end of that. Then suddenly she married Mr. Baines. I don’t know who he was, but she met him at a railway station. He had a bad headache, I believe, and she thought he was ill, and went up and offered him some smelling-salts.” “Why, it was quite romantic,” Florence exclaimed. Walter had a curious way of looking up when he was amused, and he looked up in that curious way now. “Yes,” he said, “quite romantic.” “Do go on.” “I don’t know any more except that somehow they got married, and she turned up to-day as you saw; and I wish she hadn’t given us any jam, confound it. I say, darling, let’s throw it over that hedge.” “Oh, I wouldn’t for the world,” Florence said. “It would be so unkind. She was a dear old lady, Walter, and I am glad we went to see her. She asked for our address in London, and said she should write to us.” * * * * * But Aunt Anne did not write for a long time, and then it was only to condole with Walter on the death of his father. The first year after their visit to Rottingdean she sent a large Christmas card inscribed to “My dear Walter and Florence, from Aunt Anne;” but the second year even this was omitted. It was not until Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert had been married nearly seven years that Aunt Anne again appeared before them. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER II. Many things had happened to Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert in those seven years. Most important of all—to themselves, at least—was the birth of their two children, lovely children Mrs. Hibbert declared them to be, and in his heart her husband agreed with her. But the time came when Walter found to his dismay that even lovely children would sometimes cry, and that as they grew older they wanted room to run about with that constant patter-pattering sound that is usually more delightful to a mother’s ear than to a fathers, especially when he has to produce intelligible copy. So the Hibberts moved away from the little flat in which they had begun their married life, to an ugly little upright house sufficiently near Portland Road to enable Walter to get quickly to the office. There a nursery could be made at the top of the house, where the children would be not only out of sight, but out of hearing.