But the words gave Florence a sudden insight into the possible reason of Aunt Anne’s collapse at Mrs. North’s, a catastrophe to which the old lady never referred. The very mention of Mrs. North’s name made her manner a little distant. “And then, you know,” Florence said, for she was always careful, and now especially, in order to make the very short allowance on which she had put herself in her husband’s absence hold out, “we must not let the children learn to be dainty, must we? So they must try to eat up the crusts of their bread; and we only give them a little butter when they have jam. I never had butter and jam together at all at home,” and she stroked Catty’s fat little hand while she went on reading her letter. “Grandma has written from France, my babes,” she said, looking up after a few minutes; “she sends you each a kiss and five shillings to spend.” “I shall buy a horse and be a soldier,” Monty declared. “I shall buy a present for mummy and a little one for Aunt Anne,” said Catty. “Bless you, my darling, for thinking of me,” the old lady said fervently, and suddenly opening a tin of Devonshire cream, she piled a mass of it on to the bread and butter and jam already before the astonished children. Aunt Anne’s nature gloried in profusion. “Why,” said Florence, not noticing anything at table, “here is a letter from Madame Celestine—her name is on the seal at least. I don’t owe her anything. Oh no, it isn’t for me. _Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter Hibbert._ It is for you, Aunt Anne.” “Thank you, my love.” Mrs. Baines took it, with an air of slight but dignified vexation. “It was remiss of your servant not to put all my letters beside me. I am sorry you should be troubled with my correspondence.” “But it doesn’t matter,” Florence answered. “I hope you have not found her very expensive; she can be so sometimes?” and through Florence’s mind there went a remembrance of the dress in which Aunt Anne had appeared on the night of the dinner-party. A little flush, or something like one, went across the old lady’s withered cheek. “My love,” she said, almost haughtily, “I have not yet given her charges my consideration. I have been too much engaged with more important matters.” “I sincerely hope she does not owe for that dress,” Florence thought, but she did not dare ask any questions. “Madame Celestine is not a comfortable creditor, nor usually a small one.” Then she understood Catty’s and Monty’s remarkable silence of the past few minutes. It had suddenly dawned upon her how unusual it was. “Why, my beloved babes,” she exclaimed, “what are you eating?” and she looked across laughingly at Aunt Anne. “Where did those snowy mountains of cream come from?” “They came by post, just now, my love,” Mrs. Baines said firmly.