Then it was that Florence discovered that Aunt Anne was really a charming person to have in the house, especially with children. She was so bright, so clever with them, so full of little surprises. In her pocket there always lingered some unexpected little present, and at the tip of her tongue some quaint bit of old-world knowledge that was as interesting to grown-up folk as to the children. To see her prim figure about the place seemed to Florence like having lavender among her linen. She was useful too, ready with her fingers to darn some little place in a tablecloth that every one else had overlooked, to sew a button on Monty’s little shoe, or to mend a tear in Catty’s pinafore. Above all, she was so complimentary, so full of admiration, and it was quite evident that she meant with her whole heart all the pretty things she said. She did too. Walter was the son of her favourite brother, and to Florence she had really taken a fancy from the beginning. “I loved you from the first moment, my love,” she said. “I shall never forget the look of happiness on your face that morning at Brighton when I met you and your dear Walter together. It endeared you to me. It was a happy day,” she added, with a sigh. “Yes, a very happy day,” Florence answered, affectionately remembering how ungrateful both she and dear Walter had been at the time. This was at breakfast one morning, a week after Walter’s departure. She was pouring out the coffee very quickly because she longed to open her letters, though she knew it was not possible to get yet the one he had posted from Gibraltar. Aunt Anne meanwhile was undoing a little packet that had come by post addressed to her. Catty and Monty having finished their porridge were intently watching. She stopped when she noticed the gravity of their faces. “My love,” she said, in the tone of one asking a great favour, “have I your permission to give these dear children some bread and jam?” “Oh yes, of course,” Florence answered, not looking up from the long letter she was reading. Aunt Anne, quick to notice, saw that it had a foreign postmark and an enclosure that looked like a cheque. Then she cut some bread and took off the crust before she spread a quantity of butter on the dainty slices, and piled on the top of the butter as much jam as they could carry. “Oh!” cried the children, with gleeful surprise. “Dear Aunt Anne,” exclaimed Florence, looking up when she heard it, “I never give them quite so much butter with quite so much jam. It is too rich for them, and we don’t cut off the crusts.” “The servants will eat them.” “Indeed they will not,” laughed Florence; “they don’t like crusts.” “You are much too good to them, love, as you are to every one. They should do as they are told, and be glad to take what they can get. I never have patience with the lower classes,” she added, in the gentlest of voices.