“And so—and so,” continued the old lady with a little gasp, “I went to Sir William Rammage once more. I told him—I told him”—she stopped—“I told him how our mothers had stood over us together, years and years ago.” “Yes, I know,” Florence said soothingly. She had heard this so often before. “I hope he was good to you?” “My dear, he listened with compunction, but he saw the force of what I said. He will write and tell me how much he will allow me,” she added simply. “I am very glad, Aunt Anne; I hope he will write soon, and be generous. I know it will make you happier.” “It will, indeed,” and Mrs. Baines gave another long sigh. “I shall not be dependent on any one much longer.” “Except upon him,” Florence said unwittingly. “No, I shall not feel that I am dependent even upon him,” and she looked up quickly. “He will give it and I shall take it for the honour of the family. I told him how impossible it was that I could go on living upon you and Walter, that it would be a disgrace. I could not live upon him either. He has shown me so little sympathy, my love, that I could not endure it. I shall take the allowance from him as I should take an inheritance, knowing that it is not given to me for my own sake. I could not take it in any other spirit; but it would be as wrong in him to forget what is due to us, as it would be in me to let him do so. It would shed dishonour on his name.” And again she was silent; she seemed to be living over the past, to be groping her way back among days that were over before Florence was even born, to be seeing people whose very names had not been heard for years. “They would rise in their graves if I were left to starve,” she continued; “I have always felt it; and it was but right towards them that I should go to William; it was due to them even that I should live on you and Walter, my darling, till I received an adequate income.” Suddenly her voice changed again, the wonderful smile came back—the happy look that always seemed as if it had travelled from the youth she had left long years behind. “You understand, my love?” she asked. “Bless you for all your kindness, but I am not going to intrude upon you much longer. I have already seen an apartment that will, I think, suit my requirements.” “Oh no.” “Yes, my love, it will be much better. You cut me to the quick this morning, Florence,” and her voice grew sad; “you said that you would have to send away your dear children because my influence would spoil them.” “Aunt Anne!”—Florence began in consternation. “Yes, dear, yes,” the old lady said solemnly; “it gave me the deepest pain, as I sat and thought it over in the privacy of my own chamber. But when I came downstairs and you shared your dear mother’s gift with me, I knew that you loved me sincerely.” “I do,” said Florence, soothingly.