It was rather dull in the country, Florence thought. In the summer, of course, the outdoor life made it delightful, but now there was so little to fill the days, only the children and the housekeeping, wonderings about Walter, and the writing of the bit of diary on very thin paper which she had promised to post out to him every week. She was not a woman who made an intellectual atmosphere for herself. She lived her life through her husband, read the same books, and drew her conclusions by the light of his. Now that he had gone the world seemed half empty, and very dull and tame. There was no glamour over anything. Perhaps it was this that had helped to make her a little unkind to Aunt Anne, for gradually she was persuading herself that she had been unkind. She wished Aunt Anne had an income of her own, and the home for which she had said she longed. It would be so much better for everybody. When she was nearly home, a sudden dread seized her lest Mr. Wimple should be there, but this, she reflected, was not likely. It was long past calling-time, and Aunt Anne was too great a stickler for etiquette to allow him to take a liberty, as she would call it. So Florence quickened her steps, and entered her home bravely to the sound of the children’s voices upstairs singing as they went to bed. A fire was blazing in the dining-room, and everything looked comfortable, just as it had the night before. But there was no sign of Aunt Anne. Probably she was upstairs “getting ready,” for a lace cap and bit of white at her throat and an extra formal, though not less affectionate, manner than usual Aunt Anne seemed to think a fitting accompaniment to the evening meal. Florence looked round the dining-room with a little pride of ownership. She was fond of the cottage, it was their very own, hers and Walter’s; and how wise they had been to do up that particular room, it made every meal they ate in it a pleasure. That buttery-hatch too, it was absurd that it should be so, but really it was a secret joy to her. Suddenly her eye caught a package that had evidently come in her absence. A parcel of any sort was always exciting. This could not be another present from Aunt Anne? and she drew a short breath. Oh no, it had come by rail. Books. She knew what it was—some novels from Mr. Fisher. “How kind he is,” she said gratefully; “he says so few words, but he does so many things. I really don’t see why Ethel should not love him. I don’t think she would find it difficult to do so,” she thought, with the forgetfulness of womanhood for the days of girlish fancy. “Mrs. Baines has not yet returned,” the servant said, entering to arrange the table. “Not returned. Is she out, then?” “Yes, ma’am, she started half an hour after you did. Steggall’s waggonette came for her.” Florence groaned inwardly. “Do you know where she has gone?”