“Bless him,” exclaimed Aunt Anne, and laughed aloud for glee. “He is so like his father, it makes me forget all my sorrows to see him. My dear children,” she went on, solemnly addressing them, “I did not bring you anything, but before the day is finished you shall have proof that Aunt Anne loves you. Good-bye, my dears, good-bye;” and she looked at their mother with an expression that said plainly, “Send them away.” Florence opened the door and the children pattered back to the nursery. When they had gone Mrs. Baines rose. “I must go too,” she said sadly, as if she had overtaken her griefs and sorrows again, “for I am no longer my own mistress. Remember that, dear, when you think of me, or when you and Walter converse together.” “But it is nearly one o’clock, will not you stay and lunch? Walter might come, and he would be so glad to see you,” Florence said anxiously, remembering that as yet she had done nothing to help the old lady, and without her husband she felt it was too awkward a task to attempt. “No, my dear, no; but I shall come again when you least expect me, on the chance of finding you at home.” “And is there nothing I can do for you, Aunt Anne?” Florence asked hesitatingly, “no way in which I can be useful to you?” “No, my dear, no; but thank you and bless you for your tender heart. There is nothing I want. I wish you could see Mrs. North, Florence, she is kindness itself. I have been in the house five weeks, and they have never once failed to show me the attention that is due to me,” she said, with grave dignity. “We went to Covent Garden Theatre last night—I refused to go to Drury Lane, for I did not approve of the name of the piece—they insisted on giving me the best place, and were most anxious when we reached home for fear I had taken cold whilst waiting for the carriage.” It seemed as if Aunt Anne had been extraordinarily lucky. “And you like being with young people, I think,” Florence said, noticing how her sad face lighted up while she spoke of the theatre. “It is always a pleasure to me to witness happiness in others,” Aunt Anne answered, with a long benevolent sigh, “and it is a comfort to know that to this beautiful girl—for Mrs. North is only four-and-twenty, my dear—my presence is beneficial and my experience of life useful. I wish you would come and call on her.” “But she might not like it? I don’t see why she should desire my acquaintance.” “She would think it the greatest honour to know anybody belonging to me.” “Is she an old friend, Aunt Anne, or how did you know her?” Florence asked, wondering at the great kindness extended to the old lady, and whether there was a deep foundation for it. She did not think it likely, from all that she had heard, that companions were generally treated with so much consideration. For a moment Aunt Anne was silent, then she answered coldly—