“I met her through an advertisement. But you must not question me, you must not indeed, Florence; I never allowed any one to do that, and I am too old to begin; too old and feeble and worn out to allow it even from you, my love.” “But, dear Aunt Anne, I did not mean to hurt or offend you in any way. I merely wondered, since these people were so kind to you, if they were new or old friends,” Florence said affectionately, but still a little stiffly, for now that she had been assured the old lady was so well provided for, she felt that she might defend herself. “Then you must forgive me,” Mrs. Baines said penitently; “I know I am foolishly sensitive sometimes, but in my heart I shall never misjudge you or Walter; be assured of that, my darling.” She went slowly up to a little ebony-framed looking-glass that was over a bracket in an out-of-the-way corner—it was odd that she should even have noticed it—and stood before it arranging her bonnet, till she was a mass of blackness and woe. “My love,” she said, “would you permit your servant to call a cab for me? I prefer a hansom. I promised Mrs. North that I would return to luncheon, and I fear that I am already a little behindhand.” “Oh, but hansoms are so expensive, and I have been the cause——” Florence began as she put her hand on the bell. “I must beg you not to mention it. I would spend my last penny on you and Walter, you know I would.” Mrs. Baines answered with the manner that had carried all before it at Brighton. It brought back to Florence’s memory her own helplessness and Walter’s on that morning which had ended in the carrying away of jam and yellow flowers from Rottingdean. She went downstairs with the old lady and opened the door. Mrs. Baines looked at the hansom and winked. “It is a curious thing, my dear Florence,” she said, “but ever since I can remember I have had a marked repugnance to a grey horse.” “Shall we send it away and get another?” “No, my dear, no; I think it foolish to encourage a prejudice: nothing would induce me now not to go by that cab.” She gathered her shawl close round her shoulders and went slowly down the steps; when she was safely in the hansom and the door closed in front of her, she bowed with dignity to Florence, as if from the private box of a theatre. That same afternoon there arrived a pot of maidenhair fern with a card attached to it on which was written, _Mrs. Walter Hibbert, from Aunt Anne_, and two smaller pots of bright flowers _For the dear children_. “How very kind of her,” exclaimed Florence; “but she ought not to spend her money on us—the money she earns too. Oh, she is much too generous.” “Yes, dear,” Walter said to Florence; and Florence thought that his voice was a little odd. [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. “I WISH we could do something for Aunt Anne,” Mrs. Hibbert said to her husband that evening. “It was very kind of her to send us those flowers.” “Let’s ask her to dine.”