The old lady got out of the fly slowly, she handed out her niece and nephew; the latter was going to pay the driver, but she pushed away his hand, then stood for a moment feeling absently in her pocket. After a moment she looked up and said in an abstracted voice, “Walter dear, you must settle with the flyman when you go back to Brighton; he is paid by the hour and will wait for you, my darlings;” and she turned towards the gate. “Come,” she said, “I must present you to your uncle.—Robert,” she called, “are you there?” She walked along the pathway with a quick determined step a little in advance of her visitors: when she reached the house she stood still, looking in, but hesitating to enter. Florence and Walter overtaking her saw that the front door opened into a room simply, almost poorly, furnished, with many photographs dotted about the walls, and a curious arrangement of quartz and ferns in one corner. While Mrs. Baines stood irresolute, there came round the house from the right a little shabby-looking maid-servant. Her dress was dirty, and she wore a large cap on her untidy head. “Emma,” said Aunt Anne in the condescending voice of one who struggled, but unsuccessfully, to forget her own superior condition in life, “where is your master?” “I don’t know, mum, but I think he’s tying up the beans.” “Have you prepared luncheon?” The girl looked up in surprise she evidently did not dare express, and answered in the negative. “Then go and do so immediately.” “But please, mum, what am I to put on the table?” asked the girl, bewildered. “Put!” exclaimed the old lady; “why, the cold bacon, and the preserved cranberries, of course, and the honey and the buns.” Florence thought that it sounded like the oddest meal in the world. “I think we had better return, I do indeed, Aunt Anne, if you will kindly let us,” urged Walter, thinking regretfully of the chicken. Aunt Anne waved her hand. “Walter,” she answered grandly, “you shall not go until you have partaken of our hospitality. I wish it were a thousand times better than it is,” she added, with a pathetic note in her voice that found their hearts directly. Walter put his hand on her shoulder like the simple affectionate fellow he was, and Florence hastened to say heartily— “It sounds delightful, dear Aunt Anne; it is only that we——” And then there came slouching round the left side of the house a tall ungainly-looking man of about sixty, a man with a brown beard and brown trousers, carrying in his hand a newspaper. He looked at Walter and at Florence in almost stupid surprise, and turned from them with a grunt. “Anne,” he said crossly, “where have you been? I have wasted all my morning looking for you; you knew those scarlet runners wanted tying up, and the sunflowers trimming. Who are these?” he asked, nodding at his visitors as coolly as if they had been out of hearing; “and what is that fly doing at the gate?”