“Oh, you are much too kind, Aunt Anne. But you will spoil the children, you will indeed, as well as their digestions. You are much too good to them; but we shall have to send them away if you corrupt them in this delicious manner.” “It is most nutritious, I assure you,” Aunt Anne answered, with great gravity, while with dogged and desperate haste she piled more and more cream on to Monty’s plate. “I thought you would like it, Florence. I have ordered three pounds to be sent in one-pound tins at intervals of three days. I hoped that you would think it good for the dear children, that they would have your approbation in eating it.” “Of course, and I shall eat some too,” Florence answered, trying to chase away Aunt Anne’s earnestness; “only you are much too good to them.” The old lady looked up with a tender smile on her face. “It is not possible to be good enough to your children, my darling—yours and Walter’s.” “Dear Walter,” said Florence, as she rose from the table, “I shall be glad to get his letter. Now, my monkeys, my vagabonds, my darlings, go upstairs and tell nurse to take you out at once to see the trees and the ducks in the pond; go along, go along,” and she ran playfully after the children. “May I go and buy my horse?” asked Monty; “and I think I shall buy a sword too. I want to kill a man.” “He is just like his father!” exclaimed Aunt Anne. “What is Catty going to do with her money?” she asked. “Give it to mummy,” the child answered softly. “And she is just like you, dear Florence,” said the old lady, in a choking voice. “She is just like herself, and therefore like a dickie-bird, and a white rabbit, and a tortoiseshell kitten, and many other things too numerous to mention,” Florence laughed, overtaking Catty and kissing her little round face. “But go, my babes, go—go and get ready; your beloved mummy wants to turn you out of doors;” and shouting with joy the children scampered off. Florence took up _The Centre_. “Won’t you have the paper, Aunt Anne, and a quiet quarter of an hour?” “Thank you, no, my love; I rarely care to peruse it until a more leisure time of the day. With your permission I will leave you now, I have some business to transact out of doors; are there any commissions I could execute for you?” “No, thank you.” Aunt Anne was always thoughtful, Florence said to herself. Every morning since she came this question had been asked and answered in almost the same words. “By the way, Aunt Anne, Mr. Wimple called yesterday. I am sorry I was not at home”—and this she felt to be a fib. “He told me that he intended to do so before he left town.” There was a strange light on Aunt Anne’s face when she spoke of him; her niece saw it with wonder.