It seemed to Florence as if the room recognized the old lady, as if it had been waiting, knowing that she would come. There was something about it that said more plainly than any words could have said that the hands were still that had first arranged it, and many footsteps had gone out from its doorway that would never come in at it more. “It always depresses me,” Florence explained; “but it is just as we found it. We refurnished the dining-room, and sit there a good deal. It is more cheerful than this. Come upstairs”—and she led the way. The bedrooms were all small too, save one in front, that seemed to match the drawing-room. It looked like a room to die in: Florence thought so, as she entered it for the first time with Aunt Anne. A quaint four-post bedstead with dark chintz curtains, a worm-eaten bureau, a sampler worked in Berlin wool and framed in black cherry-wood hanging over the fireplace. “This is the best room,” she said, “and we keep it for visitors. There is a little one, meant to be a dressing-room, I suppose, leading out of it,” and she went to a bright little nook with a bed in it. “I always feel that the best bedroom and the drawing-room belong to a past world, and the rest of the house to the present one.” “It is like your life and mine, my darling; mine to the past and yours to the present.” “I think you ought to sleep in the best room, Aunt Anne.” “No, my love,” the old lady interrupted, “let me have this little one which is next it. When you require the other, if I am still with you, I can lock the door between. The best one is too grand for me; but sometimes while it is empty I will go in, if you have no objection, and look out at the fir trees and the road that stretches right and left——” “I like doing that,” Florence interrupted. “It always sets me thinking—the road from the city to the sea.” “From the city to the sea,” the old lady repeated; “from the voices to the silences.” “Aunt Anne, we mustn’t grow sentimental,” Florence began. There was the sound of a tinkling bell. It seemed to come at an opportune moment. “Oh, happy sound,” she laughed; “it means that our meal is ready. Catty, darling,” she called, “Monty, my son, roast chicken is waiting downstairs. Auntie and mummy are quite ready; come, dear babes”—and patter, patter, came the sound of the little feet, and together they all went down. An hour later the fly came to the door; it was time for Florence to start on her way back to town. “I shall be with you at latest on Tuesday. Perhaps, dear Aunt Anne, if you don’t mind taking care of the bad children so long, I may go on Saturday for a day or two to an old schoolfellow,” she said. “Then I should not be here till the middle of next week.” “Dear child, you do indeed put confidence in me,” Mrs. Baines answered quaintly.