Every moment, too, she remembered, took him farther away. She told herself again and again how much good the journey would do him, how glad she was that he would get the change; but human nature is human nature still, and will not be controlled by argument. So she quickened her pace, resolving not to give way till she was safe in the darkness of her own room, hidden from the eyes of the servants, and then she would let her feelings have their fling. She looked up at the house with a sigh. It would be so still without Walter. There was a flickering light in the drawing-room. Probably the servants had put a lamp there, for the days were growing shorter; it was nearly dark already. The children would be in bed, but they were certain not to be asleep, and she thought of the little shout of welcome they would give when they heard her footstep on the stair as she went up to kiss them. She let herself in with Walter’s latchkey—she kissed it as she took it from her pocket, and nearly cried again—and then, having entered, stood still and wondered. There in the hall were two square boxes—boxes of the sort that were used before overland trunks came into fashion, and when American arks were unknown. They were covered with brown holland, bordered with faded red braid, and corded with thick brown cord. Stitched on to each cover was a small white card, on each of which was written, in a hand Florence knew well, _Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter Hibbert_. While she was still contemplating the address, a servant, who had heard her enter, came up. “Mrs. Baines has been here since eleven o’clock, ma’am,” she said; “she’s in the drawing-room, and has had nothing to eat all day except a cup of tea, and a little toast that nurse made her have at four o’clock. She’s been waiting to see you.” It was evident that there had been some catastrophe. Florence went wearily upstairs, and, after a moment’s hesitation to gather courage, entered the drawing-room. “Aunt Anne!” she exclaimed, “what has happened?” The old lady had been standing by the fireplace. Her thin white hands were bare, but she still wore her cloak and black close-fitting bonnet, though she had thrown aside the crape veil. Her face looked worn and anxious, but a look of indignation came to her eyes when she saw Florence, a last little flash of remembered insult: then she advanced with outstretched hands. “Florence,” she said, “I have come to you for advice and shelter, I have been insulted—and humiliated”—a quaver came into her voice, she could not go on till indignation returned to give her strength. “Florence,” she begun again, “I have come to you. I—I——”