She dived down into her pocket and pulled out a little soft packet. “I thought it possible you hadn’t one,” she said joyfully, “so I bought this for you just now;” and she tucked the little parcel into his hand. It took him by surprise, he did not know what to say. He felt like the schoolboy she seemed to take him for, and a schoolboy’s awkwardness overtook him; he smiled, nodded mysteriously, and put the handkerchief into his pocket. His manner delighted Mrs. Baines. “He is just the same,” she said to Florence; “I remember him so well when he was only ten years old. He had the most lovely eyes I ever saw. Walter, do you remember my visit to your father?—Ah! we have reached the hill, that’s why he’s going so slowly,” she exclaimed excitedly. “We shall be there in five minutes. Now we are close to the village. Drive through the street, coachman,” she called out, “past the church, and a little way on you will see a house standing back from the road with a long garden in front and a white gate. Florence dear,” she asked, still keeping her eyes fixed on the driver, “do you like preserve?” “Like—do you mean jam?” Florence asked, bewildered by another sudden question. “Yes, my love, preserve,” Aunt Anne answered pointedly, as if she resented the use of the shorter word. “Yes, I like it very much,” her newly found niece said humbly, feeling that she had been rebuked. “We have quantities of fruit in our garden, and have been preserving it all the week. It is not very firm yet, but you must have some to take back with you.” “I am afraid we shall hardly be able to carry it,” Florence began timidly, feeling convinced that if she were made to carry jam to London it would be fatal to the rest of her luggage. “I will pack it for you myself,” Aunt Anne said firmly. She was watching the driver too intently to say more. She did not speak again till they had driven down the one street of Rottingdean, past the newly built cottages and the church, and appeared to be getting into another main road. Then suddenly she rose triumphantly from her seat. “There it is, coachman, that little cottage to the left. Dear Walter—how pleased your uncle will be! Here it is, dears,” and all her kindly face lighted up with satisfaction as they stopped before a small whitewashed cottage with a long garden in front and a bed of lupins at the side. Florence noticed that the garden, stretching far behind, was full of fruit-trees, and that a pear-tree rubbed against the sides of the house.