But Florence could not feel as compassionate as she desired. She smarted under the loss of her money; there was nothing at all to represent it, and Aunt Anne did not seem to have the least idea that it had been of any consequence. Florence got up and put the books away, looking across at Aunt Anne while she did so. The expression on the old lady’s face was set, and almost angry; her lips were firmly closed. She was working at Catty’s little dress. She was a beautiful needle-woman, and embroidered cuffs and collars on the children’s things that were a source of joyful pride to their mother. But even the host of stitches would not pay the week’s bills. If only Aunt Anne could be made to understand the value of money, Florence thought—but it was no use thinking, for her foolish, housekeeping heart was full of domestic woe. She went upstairs to her own room, and, like a real woman who makes no pretence to strong-mindedness, sat down to cry. “If Walter were only back,” she sobbed, as she rubbed her tearful face against the cushions on the back of the basket-chair by the fireside. “If he were here I should not mind, I might even laugh then. But after I have tried and tried so hard to save and to spend so little, it is hard, and I don’t know what to do.” She pulled out Walter’s letter and read it again by way of getting a little comfort, and as she did so, felt the envelope containing the receipts of the bills Mrs. North had paid. She did not believe that Aunt Anne cared whether they were paid or not paid. She always seemed to think that the classes, who were what she pleased to consider beneath her, were invented simply for her use and convenience, and that protest in any shape on their part was mere impertinence. The day dragged by. The children prevented the early dinner from being as awkward as it might have been. Mrs. Baines was cold and courteous. Florence had no words to say. She would make it up with the old lady in the evening, when they were alone, she thought. Of course she would have to make it up. Meanwhile, she would go for a long walk, it would do her good. She could think things over quietly, as she tramped along a lonely road between the hedges of faded gorse and heather. But it was late in the afternoon before she had energy enough to start. On her way out, she put her head in at the dining-room door. Mrs. Baines was there with the morning paper, which had just come. She was evidently excited and agitated, and held the paper in one hand while she looked out towards the garden. But she seemed to have forgotten all the unpleasantness of the morning when she spoke. “My love, are you going out?” she asked. “I thought you had an engagement, Aunt Anne, and would not want me.” “That is true, my dear, and I shall be glad to be alone for a little while, if you will forgive me for saying it. There is an announcement in the paper that gives me the deepest pain, Florence. Sir William Rammage is ill again—he is confined to his room.”