“I would prefer not to discuss the matter, my love,” the old lady said loftily. “You are so young and inexperienced that perhaps you cannot enter into my feelings. Either the cook or I had to leave the house. There were other reasons too, I repeat, why I deemed it unadvisable,—why it was impossible to remain. Mrs. North has lately shown a levity of manner that I could not countenance; her sister is no longer with her, and her husband has been thousands of miles away; is away still, yet she is always ready for amusement. I cannot believe that she loves him, or she would show more regret at his absence. I have known what a happy marriage is, Florence, and you know what it is too, my love. You can therefore understand that I thought her conduct reprehensible. I felt it my duty to tell her so.” “Yes,” Florence said wearily, “I know, I know;” but she could not help thinking that Aunt Anne had behaved rather foolishly. Then she rang the bell and ordered tea to be made ready in the dining-room, a substantial tea of the sort that women love and men abhor. “Now rest and forget all the worries,” she said gently. “You are tired and excited, try and forget everything till you have had some tea and are rested. The spare room is quite ready, and you shall go to bed early, as I will, for it has been a long day.” “I know what you must have gone through,” and Mrs. Baines shook her head sadly, “and that you want to be alone to think of your dear Walter. But I will only intrude on you for one night, to-morrow I will find an apartment.” “You must not talk like that, for you are very welcome, Aunt Anne,” Florence said gently, though she could not help inwardly chafing at the intrusion, and longing to be alone. “Tell me, love, did Walter go off comfortably?” Mrs. Baines asked, speaking with the air people sometimes speak of those who have died rather to the satisfaction of their relations. “Yes, he sailed a few hours ago. I have just come back from Southampton.” “I know it,” Aunt Anne answered, her voice full of untold feeling; “did he take my simple gifts with him, dear?” “Yes, he took them,” Florence answered gratefully; “but come downstairs, Aunt Anne, you must be worn out.” Then in a moment Aunt Anne recovered her old manner, the manner that had some indefinable charm in it, and looked at Florence. “Yes, my love,” she said, “I am very much fatigued but I am thankful indeed to enjoy your hospitality again. Before I retire to rest I must write some letters, if you will permit your servant to post them.” Florence had to write one or two letters also. She gave three to the little housemaid to post; as she did so, one of Aunt Anne’s caught her eye. It was addressed to Alfred Wimple. “Perhaps she wanted to tell him something about the Albert Memorial,” she thought, and dismissed the matter from her mind. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VI.