“Yes, dear, and it was very kind of you,” Florence said tenderly. After all, why should Aunt Anne be worried through that horrid Mr. Wimple? Walter would have invited him if he had found him in the neighbourhood, and why should not Aunt Anne do so in peace, if it pleased her? Of course, now that she herself had returned she could do as she liked about him. She looked at the books. They were not so very bad, after all. “Shall we make up our accounts now, and get it over, or in the morning?” she asked. “I should prefer the morning,” Aunt Anne said meekly. “To-night, love, you must be tired, and I am also fatigued with the excitement consequent on seeing you.” “What a shame, poor Aunt Anne!” Florence said brightly. “I have worn you out.” “Only with happiness, my dear,” said the old lady, fondly. Florence put away her books, and stroked Aunt Anne’s shoulder as she passed. “We will do our work in the morning,” she said. “Yes, my darling, in the morning. In the afternoon I may possibly have an engagement.” Florence longed to ask where, but a certain stiffness in Aunt Anne’s manner made it impossible. “Have you any news from London?” she ventured to inquire, for she was longing to know about Sir William Rammage. “No, my love, I have no news from London,” Mrs. Baines answered, and she evidently meant to say no more. * * * * * In the morning much time was taken up with the arrival of the donkey-cart and the delight of the children. A great basket of apples was inside the cart, and on the top was a little note explaining that they were from Mrs. Burnett’s garden, and she hoped the children might like them. Aunt Anne was as much pleased with the donkey as the rest of the party. “There is a rusticity in the appearance of a donkey,” she explained, “that always gives me a sense of being really in the country.” “Not when you meet him in London, I fear,” Florence said. Mrs. Baines considered for a moment. She seemed to resent the observation. “No, my love, of course not in London; I am speaking of the country,” she said reprovingly; then she added, “I should enjoy a little drive occasionally myself, if you would trust me with the cart, my love. It would remind me of days gone by. I sometimes drove one at Rottingdean. You are very fortunate, my dear one, in having so few sorrows to remember—for I trust you have few. It always saddens me to think of the past. Let us go indoors.” Florence put her arm through the old lady’s, and led her in. Then she thought of the books again; it would be a good time to make them up. “I am always particular about my accounts, you know, Aunt Anne,” she said in an apologetic tone. “Yes, my love,” answered the old lady; “I admire you for it.” Florence looked at the figures; they made her wince a little, but she said nothing. “The bill for the waggonettes, Aunt Anne?” she asked. “That belongs to me, my dear.” “Oh no, I can’t allow that.”