There was a triumphant note in her voice that prepared Florence for the fire in the grate and the bouquet on the dressing-table, and all the little arrangements that Mrs. Baines had devised to add to her comfort. It was very cheery, she thought when she was alone; Aunt Anne had a knack of making one enjoy a home-coming. She sat for a few moments over the fire, and pulled out Walter’s letter and read it and kissed it and put it back into her pocket. Then she looked round the cosy room again, and noticed a little packet on the corner of the drawers. Aunt Anne must have placed it there when she went out of the room. On it was written, _For my darling Florence_. “Oh,” she said, “it’s another present,” and regretfully her fingers undid the string. Inside the white paper was a little pin-cushion covered with blue velvet, and having round it a rim of silver filigree work. Attached to it was a little note which ran thus— “MY DARLING,—Accept this token of my love and gratitude. I feel that there is no way in which I can better prove how much I appreciated your generous gift to me than by spending a portion of it on a token of my affection for you. I trust you will honour my little gift with your acceptance.” “Oh,” said Florence again, in despair, “I wonder if she has once thought of Madame Celestine’s bill or the others. What is the good of giving her money if one gets it back in the shape of presents?” But she could not bear to treat the old lady’s generosity with coldness. So Aunt Anne was thanked, and the cushion admired, and a happy little party gathered round the tea-table. “And have you had any visitors except Mrs. Burnett?” Florence asked artfully, when the meal was over. “We have had Mr. Wimple,” Aunt Anne said; “he is far from well, my love, and is trying to recruit at Liphook.” “Oh yes, he has friends there.” “No, my love, not now. He is at present lodging with an old retainer.” “And have you been to see him?” “No, dear Florence, he preferred that I should not do so.” “We took him lots of rides,” said Monty. “And Aunt Anne gave him a present,” said Catty, “and he put it into his pocket and never looked at it. He didn’t know what was inside the paper,—we did, didn’t we, auntie?” “My dear children,” Mrs. Baines said, “if your mother will give you permission you had better go into the nursery. It is past your hour for bed, my dear ones.” The children looked a little dismayed, but did not dream of disobeying. “Was it wrong to say you gave him a present?” asked Catty, with the odd perception of childhood, as she put up her face to be kissed. “My dears,” answered Aunt Anne, sweetly, “in my day children did not talk with their elders unless they were invited to do so.” “We didn’t know,” said Monty, ruefully. “No, my darlings, I know that. Bless you,” continued the old lady sweetly; “and good night, my dear ones. Under your pillows you will each find a chocolate which auntie placed there for you this morning.”