“Why, Aunt Anne, what is the matter?” Florence asked cheerfully, and with considerable astonishment. “You are very brave, my love,” the old lady said, scanning her niece’s face, “but I know all; an hour ago I had a letter telling me of Walter’s departure. My dear, it will break your heart.” “But why?” “My love, it will.” “Oh no,” Florence said, “I am not so foolish. Life is full of ordinary events that bring out very keen feelings, I have been thinking that lately, but one must learn to take them calmly.” “You do not know what you will suffer when he is gone.” “No, Aunt Anne, I shall miss him, of course; but I shall hope that he is enjoying himself.” “My dear Florence, I expected to find you broken-hearted.” “That would be cruel to him. I am glad he is going, it will do him good, and really I have not had time to think of myself yet, I have been so busy.” Mrs. Baines considered for a moment. “That is the reason, I knew there was an explanation somewhere,” she said in an earnest emotional tone. “I knew how unselfish you were from the first moment I saw you, Florence. It is like you, my darling, not to think of yourself. Try not to do so, for you will feel your loneliness bitterly enough when he is gone.” “But don’t tell me so,” Florence said, half crying, half laughing. “How did you know about it, Aunt Anne?” “Mr. Wimple told me.” “Mr. Wimple—have you seen him then?” “My love, he is one of the most cultivated men I ever met; we have many tastes and sympathies in common. He wrote to ask me to meet him by the Albert Memorial.” “To meet him!” Florence exclaimed. “Yes,” answered the old lady solemnly. “He agrees with me that never was there in any age or country a more beautiful work than the Albert Memorial. We arranged to meet and examine it together; he wrote to me just now and mentioned that Walter was going to India; I telegraphed instantly that I could see no one else to-day, for I thought you would welcome my loving sympathy. I came to offer it to you, Florence.” She said the last words in a disappointed and injured voice. “It was very kind of you, Aunt Anne; but indeed I have only had time to be glad that he would get a rest and pleasant change of work.” “I must see him before he goes; I may never do so again,” Mrs. Baines said, after a pause. “Oh yes, you will, dear.” “I have brought him two little tokens that I thought of him as I hastened to you after hearing the news. I know they will be useful to him. These are glycerine lozenges, Florence; they are excellent for the throat. The sea mist or the desert sand is sure to affect it.” “Thank you, it was very kind of you; you are much too generous—you make us quite uneasy.” Florence was miserable at the two evils suggested.