Florence felt as if the envelope would burn a hole in her pocket. It was impossible to deliver it now. Perhaps, after all, the wisest way would be to say nothing about it. She had an idea that Aunt Anne frequently forgot all about her bills as soon as she had come to the conclusion that it was impossible to make them any longer. She searched about in her mind for some other topic of conversation. It was often difficult to find a subject to converse upon with Aunt Anne, for the old lady never suggested one herself, and except of past experiences and old-world recollections she seldom seemed sufficiently interested to talk much. Happily as it seemed for the moment, Jane entered with the housekeeping books. They were always brought in on a Tuesday, and paid on a Wednesday morning. Florence was very particular on this point. They usually gave her a bad half-hour, for she could never contrive to keep them down as much as she desired. That week, however, she reflected that they could not be very bad; besides, she had left four pounds with Aunt Anne, which must be almost intact, unless the drives had been paid out of them; but even then there would be plenty left to more than cover the books. The prospect of getting through her accounts easily cheered her, and she thought that she would set about them at once. “They are heavy this week, ma’am,” Jane said, not without a trace of triumph in her voice, “on account of the chickens and the cream and the company.” “The chickens and the cream and the company,” laughed Florence, as Jane went out of the room; “it sounds like a line from a comic poem. What does she mean?” Aunt Anne winked as if to give herself nerve. “Jane was very impertinent to me one day, my love, because I felt sure that after the fatigue of the journey from town, and the change of air, you would prefer that your delicately-nurtured children should eat chicken and have cream with their second course every day for dinner, instead of roast mutton and milk pudding. White meat is infinitely preferable for delicate digestions.” “Yes, dear Aunt Anne,” Florence said sweetly, and she felt a sudden dread of opening the books, “you are quite right.” But what did a few chickens and a little cream matter in comparison to the poor old lady’s feelings? she thought. “And if you had company too, of course you wanted to have a smarter table. Whom have you been entertaining, you dear and dissipated Aunt Anne?” “My dear Florence, I have entertained no one but Mr. Wimple. He is a friend of yours and your dear Walter’s, and I tried to prove to him that I was worthy to belong to you, by showing him such hospitality as lay in my power.”