Mrs. Baines listened to his words gravely, she seemed to revolve them in her mind for a moment before she looked up. “I am sure you are musical, Mr. Wimple,” she said, “I can see it in your face.” “Aunt Anne,” Walter said, passing her, “should you mind my opening this window?” “No, my darling, I should like it,” she answered tenderly. Mr. Wimple gave a long sigh. “Lucky beggar he is; you are very fond of him?” “Oh yes,” she answered, “he is like my own son;” and she nodded at Walter, who was carrying on a laughing conversation with Ethel Dunlop, while his wife was having what seemed to be a serious one with Mr. Fisher. She looked round the room, her gaze rested on the open window. “I think the carriage must be waiting,” she said, almost to herself. “I will tell you;” and Mr. Wimple went on to the balcony. “It is a lovely night, Mrs. Baines,” he said, and turning back he fastened his strange eyes upon her. Without a word she rose and followed him. “Aunt Anne,” Florence said, “you will catch your death of cold; you mustn’t go out. Walter dear, get my thick white shawl for Aunt Anne.” “Oh no, my love, pray continue your conversation; I have always made a point of looking up at the sky before I retire to rest, therefore it is not likely to do me harm.” “I wouldn’t let it do you harm for the world,” Mr. Wimple whispered. She heard him; but she seemed to digest his words slowly, for she nodded to herself before, with the manner and smile that were so entirely her own, she answered— “Pray don’t distress yourself, Mr. Wimple, I am accustomed to stand before the elements at all seasons of the year, and this air is not likely to be detrimental to me; besides,” she added, with a gentle laugh, “perhaps though I boasted of my age just now I am not so old as I look. Oh, dear Walter, you are too good to me—dear boy;” and she turned and let him wrap the thick white shawl about her. He lingered for a moment, but there fell the dead silence that sometimes seems to chase away a third person, and, feeling that he was not wanted, he went back to Ethel Dunlop. It was a good thing Aunt Anne liked Alfred, he thought. He had been afraid the latter would not wholly enjoy his evening, but the old lady seemed to be making up for Florence’s rather scanty attentions. “It is impossible to you to be old,” Mr. Wimple said, still speaking almost in a whisper.