“But, Aunt Anne——” Florence began astonished. Mrs. Baines put her hand on Mrs. Hibbert’s shoulder. “There there,” she said forgivingly, “I know you did not mean to hurt me, but”—and here her voice grew tender and tremulous again—“no one, not even you or Walter, must presume, for I cannot allow it. There—kiss me,” and she pulled Florence’s head down on to her breast, while suddenly—for there were wonderfully quick transitions of feeling expressed on the old wan face all through the interview—a smile that was almost joyous came to her lips. “I am so glad to see you again, my dear,” she said; “I have looked forward to this day for years. I loved you from the very first moment I saw you at Brighton, and I have always loved your Walter. I wish,” she went on, as Florence gently disengaged herself from the black cashmere embrace, “I wish you could remember him a little boy as I do. He had the darkest eyes and the lightest hair in the world.” “His hair is a beautiful brown now,” her niece answered, rather thankfully. “Yes, my love, it is,” the old lady said, with a little glee at the young wife’s pride. “And so is yours. I think you have the prettiest hair I ever saw.” There was not a shade of flattery in her voice, so that Florence was appeased after the severe snub of a moment ago, and smoothed her plaits with much complacency. “And now, tell me when will your dear one be at home, for I long to see him?” “He is very uncertain, Aunt Anne; I fear he has no fixed time; but I know that he will try and make one to see you when he hears that you are in town.” “I am sure he will,” Mrs. Baines said, evidently certain that there was no doubt at all about that. “Are the dear children at home?” she inquired. “I long for a sight of them.” “Shall I call them?” “Yes, my love; it will do my heart good to look at them.” Nothing loth, Florence opened the door and called upstairs: “Monty and Catty, are you there, my beauties? I want you, my chicks.” There was a quick patter-patter overhead, a door opened and two little voices answered both at once— “We’ll come, mummy, we’ll come.” A moment later there entered a sturdy boy of six, with eyes like his father’s, and a girl of three and a half, with nut-brown hair hanging down her back. “We are come, mummy,” they exclaimed joyfully, as their mother, taking their fat hands in hers, led them up to Aunt Anne. The old lady took them in her arms and kissed them. “Bless them,” she said, “bless them. I should have known them anywhere. They couldn’t be any one else’s children. My darlings, do you know me?” Monty drew back a little way and looked at her saucily, as if he thought the question rather a joke. “No, we don’t know you,” he answered in a jovial voice, “we don’t know you a bit.”