Florence sat thinking over Walter’s hint concerning his health. She had succeeded in frightening herself a good deal; for there was really nothing the matter with him that rest and change would not set right. She remembered all the years he had been constantly at work, for even in their holidays he had taken away something he wanted to get done, and for the first time she realized how great the strain must have been upon him. “He must long for a change,” she thought, “for a break in his life, an upsetting of its present programme. The best thing of all would be a sea voyage. That would do him a world of good.” She fancied him on board a P. and O., walking up and down the long deck, drinking in life and strength. How vigorous he would grow; how sunburnt and handsome, and how delightful it would be to see him return. She hoped that Mr. Fisher would offer him a special correspondentship for a time, or something that would break the routine of his life and give him the excitement and pleasure that a spell of rest and complete change would entail. She would talk to Mr. Fisher herself, she thought. He always liked arranging other people’s lives; he was so clever in setting things right for any one who consulted him, and so helpful; and no doubt he had noticed already that Walter was looking ill. “But he is quite well; it is nothing but overwork, and that can soon be set right——” There was a double knock at the street door. It was only eleven o’clock, too early for visitors. Florence left off thinking of Walter to wonder who it could be. The door was opened and shut, the servant’s footsteps going up to the drawing-room were followed by others so soft that they could scarcely be heard at all. “Mrs. Baines, ma’am. She told me to say that she was most anxious to see you.” “Mrs. Baines?” Florence exclaimed absently. It was so long since she had seen Aunt Anne, and she had never heard her called by her formal name, that for the moment she was puzzled. Then she remembered and went up quickly to meet her visitor. Aunt Anne was sitting on the little yellow couch near the window. She looked thin and spare, as she had done at Brighton, but she had a woebegone air now that had not belonged to her then. She was in deep mourning; there was a mass of crape on her bonnet, and a limp cashmere shawl clung about her shoulders. She rose slowly as Florence entered, but did not advance a single step. She stretched out her arms; the black shawl gave them the appearance of wings; they made her look, as she stood with her back to the light, like a large bat. But the illusion was only momentary, and then the wan face, the many wrinkles, and the nervous twitch of the left eye all helped to make an effect that was pathetic enough. “Florence,” she said in a tremulous voice, “I felt that I must see you and Walter again,” and she folded Mrs. Hibbert to her heart.