“Oh no, ma’am; she didn’t get out of the carriage when she heard you were not in. I gave her Madame Celestine’s address, and said that she had made your best evening dress, as she was very particular about its being a grand dressmaker.” “I suppose it was for Mrs. North,” Florence thought. “Poor Aunt Anne is not likely to want Madame Celestine.” Then she imagined the spare old lady in a scanty black gown going out with the pretty and probably beautifully dressed girls to whom she was chaperon. As a sort of amends for the unkindness of fate, Florence made some little soft white adornments for throat and wrists such as widows wear and that yet look smart, and, packing them in a cardboard box, sent them—_With kind love to Aunt Anne_. “Perhaps they will gratify her pride a little, poor dear, and it is so nice to have one’s pride gratified,” she thought. And then, for a space, Aunt Anne was almost forgotten. The days slipped by anxiously enough to the Hibberts—to Walter, for he knew that Mr. Fisher meant to talk with Florence about something that had been agreed between them at the office; to Florence, because without increasing the bills she really could not manage to put that little dinner together. Walter was particular; he liked luxuries, and things well managed, and she could not bear to disappoint him. However, the evening came at last. The flowers and dessert were arranged, the claret was at the right temperature, the champagne was in ice. Florence went upstairs to say good-night to the children, and to rest for five minutes. Walter came in with a flower for her dress. “It is so like you,” she said as she kissed it; “you are always the thoughtfullest old man in the world.” “I wished I had bought one for Aunt Anne as I came along in the hansom; but I forgot it at first, and then I was afraid to go back because it was getting so late.” He dressed and went downstairs. Florence leisurely began to get ready. Ten minutes later a carriage stopped; a bell rang, there was a loud double knock—some one had arrived. “But it is a quarter of an hour too soon?” she said in dismay to Maria who was helping her. The maid stood on tiptoe by the window to see who the early comer might be. “It’s only Mrs. Baines, ma’am.” They had learned to say “only” already, Florence thought. She was angry at the word, yet relieved at its not being a more important visitor. “I am very vexed at not being dressed to receive her,” she said coldly, in order to give Mrs. Baines importance. “Make haste and fasten my dress, Maria.” There was a sound of some one coming upstairs, a rustle of silk, and a gentle knock at the bedroom door. “My darling, I came early on purpose. May I be allowed to enter, dear Florence?” The voice was certainly Aunt Anne’s, but the tone was so joyous, so different from the woebegone one of ten days ago that it filled her hearer with amazement. “Come in, Aunt Anne, if you like; but I am not quite ready.”