“I shall never forget your putting this confidence in me. You have proved your affection for me most truly,” she said. “My dear Florence, your children shall have the most loving care that it is in my power to give them. I will look after everything till you come; more zealously than you yourself could. Tell me, love, where do you say the cottage is situated?” “It is near Witley, it is on the direct Portsmouth road; a sweet little cottage with a garden, and fir woods stretching on either side.” “And how far is it from Portsmouth, my love?” Mrs. Baines asked eagerly. Florence divined the meaning of the question instantly. “Oh, I don’t know, Aunt Anne; after Witley comes Hindhead, and then Liphook, and then Petersfield, and then—then I don’t know. Liphook is the place where Mr. Wimple”—the old lady winked to herself—“has friends, and sometimes goes to stay.” “And how far is that?” “About six miles, I think—six or seven.” “Thank you, my love; and now, if you will allow me, I will retire. I must make preparations for my journey, which is indeed a delightful anticipation.” Florence never forgot the October morning on which she took Aunt Anne and the children to Witley. They went from Waterloo. She thought of Walter and the day they had spent at Windsor, and of that last one on which they had gone together to Southampton, and she had returned alone. “Oh, my darling,” she said to herself, “may you grow well and strong, and come back to us soon again.” Mrs. Baines, too, seemed full of memories. She looked up and down the platform; she stood for a moment dreamily by the bookstall before it occurred to her to buy a cheap illustrated paper to amuse Catty and Monty on the journey. “My love,” she said to Florence, with a little sigh, “a railway station is fraught with many recollections of meeting and parting——” “And meeting again,” said Florence, longingly thinking of Walter. “Yes, my love,” the old lady answered tenderly; “and may yours with your dear one be soon.” There were three miles to drive from Witley to the cottage. A long white road, with fir woods on either side. Gaps in the firs, and glimpses of the Surrey hills, distant and blue, of hanging woods and deep valleys. The firs came to an end; and there were cliffs of gravel full of the holes of sand-martins. More woods, then hedges of blackberry-bushes, bare enough now; gorse full of late bloom, heather faded and turning from russet to black. Here and there a solitary house, masses of oak and larch and fir, patches of sunshine, long wastes of shade; and the road going on and on.