“Oh, poor Aunt Anne!” “I must write to him instantly. I felt sure there was some good reason for his not having told me his decision in regard to the allowance.” Then, as if she had suddenly remembered the little scrimmage of the morning, she went on quickly, “My love, give me a kiss. Do not think that I am angry with you. I never could be that; but it is unpleasant at my time of life to be made to give an exact account of money. You will remember that, won’t you, dear? I should never expect it from you. If I had hundreds and hundreds a year I would share them with you and your darlings, and I would ask you for no accounts, dear Florence. I should think that the money was as much yours as mine. You know it, don’t you, my love?” “Yes, dear, I think I do,” Florence answered, and kissed the old lady affectionately, thinking that perhaps, after all, she had made rather too much fuss. “Then let us forget about it, my darling,” Mrs. Baines said, with the gracious smile that always had its influence; “I could never remember anything long of you, but your kindness and hospitality. Believe me, I am quite sure that you did not mean to wound me this morning. It was your zealous care of dear Walter’s interests that caused you for a moment to forget what was due to me. I quite understand, my darling. Now go for your walk, and be assured that Aunt Anne loves you.” And Florence was dismissed, feeling as the children had felt the evening before when they had been sent to bed and told of the chocolate under their pillows. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. The grey sky and the dim trees, the black hedges and the absolute stillness; all these proved excellent comforters to Florence. They made her philosophical and almost smiling again. It was only when an empty waggonette of Steggall’s passed her that she remembered the vexations of the morning. “Poor old lady,” she said to herself with almost a laugh, “in future she must not be trusted with money, that is all. If she only would not scold me and treat me like a child, I should not mind it so much. Of course when Walter does it, I like it; but I don’t like it from Aunt Anne.” She had walked a long way. She was getting tired. The messengers of night were abroad, the stray breezes, the dark flecked clouds, the shadows loitering by the trees, the strange little sounds among the hedges by the wayside. Far off, beyond the wood, she heard a clock belonging to a big house strike six. It was time to hurry home. If she walked the two miles between herself and the cottage quickly, she would be in by half-past six. At seven, after the children had gone to bed, she and Aunt Anne were to sit down to a little evening meal they called supper. They would be very cosy that night; they would linger over their food, and Aunt Anne should talk of bygone days, and the quaint old world that always seemed to be just behind her.