“Yours sincerely, “E. NORTH. “P.S.—I enclose receipt.” [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER X. It was not till Tuesday afternoon in the week following that Florence went back to Witley. Mrs. Burnett was at the station, sitting in a little governess-cart drawn by a donkey. “I am waiting for my husband,” she explained; “he generally comes by this train, and I drive him home, donkey permitting. It is a dear little donkey, and we are so fond of him.” “A dear little cart too,” Florence answered as she stood by its side, talking. “I have been hoping that you would come and see me, Mrs. Burnett; we are going to be here for six or seven weeks.” “I know, Mr. Fisher told me,” Mrs. Burnett replied in her sweet and rather intense voice, “and we are so sorry that your visit takes place just while we are away. I am going to Devonshire to-morrow morning to stay with my mother while my husband goes to Scotland. I am so-o sorry,”—she had a way of drawing out her words as if to give them emphasis. Florence liked to look at Mrs. Burnett’s eyes while she spoke, they always seemed to attest that every word she said expressed the absolute meaning and intention in her mind. Her listeners gained a sense of restfulness which comes from being in the presence of a real person from whom they might take bitter or sweet, certain of its reality. “I hoped from Mr. Fisher’s note that you had arrived before, and ventured to call on Saturday.” “Did you see Mrs. Baines?” “Only for a moment. What a charming old lady—such old-fashioned courtesy; it was like being sent back fifty years to listen to her. She wanted me to stay, but I refused, for she was just setting off for a drive with your children and her nephew.” “Setting off for a drive?” Florence repeated. “Yes, she had Steggall’s waggonette from the Blue Lion, and was going to Guildford shopping. She said she meant to buy some surprises for you.” “Oh,” said Florence meekly, and her heart sank. “Did you say that she had a nephew with her?” “Well, I supposed it was a nephew, unless she has a son—a tall fair young man, who looks delicate, and walks as if his legs were not very strong.” “Oh yes, I know,” Florence answered, as she signed to the fly she had engaged to come nearer to the donkey-cart, so that she might not waste a minute. “He is a friend; he is no relation. Good-bye, Mrs. Burnett; I am sorry you are going away. I suppose you are waiting for the fast train, as Mr. Burnett did not come by the last one?” “Yes, it is due in twenty minutes. Good-bye; so sorry not to have been at home during your visit. Oh, Mrs. Hibbert, do you think your children would like to have the use of this cart while we are away? The donkey is so gentle and so good.”