“I will tell you presently, my darling; you shall know all. But I cannot eat anything,” Aunt Anne answered quickly. Even the thought of food seemed to make her impatient. “Jane,” she said, with the little air of pride that Jane resented, “you need not bring a plate for me. I do not require anything.” Then, speaking to Florence again, she went on with half-beaming, half-condescending gentleness, “Finish your repast, my darling; pray don’t let my intrusion—for it is an intrusion when I am not able to join in your meal—hurry you. When you have finished, but not till then, I have a communication to make to you. It is one I feel to be due to you before any one else; and it will prove to you how much I depend on your sympathy and love.” She spoke with earnestness, unfastening her cloak and nervously fastening it the while. Florence looked at her with a little pity. Poor old lady, she thought, how easily she worked herself into a state of excitement. “Tell me what it is now, dear Aunt Anne,” she said. “Has anything occurred to worry you? Where have you been—to Guildford?” “To Guildford? No, my dear. Something has occurred, but not to worry me. It is something that will make me very happy, and I trust that it will make you very happy to hear it. I rely on your sympathy and Walter’s to support me.” Florence was not very curious. Aunt Anne had always so much earnestness at her command, and was very prodigal of it. Besides, it did not seem likely that anything important had happened; some trifling pleasure or vexation, probably; nothing more. At last the little meal was finished, the things pushed through the buttery-hatch, the crumbs swept off the cloth by Jane, who seemed to linger in a manner that Mrs. Baines in her own mind felt to be wholly reprehensible and wanting in respect towards her superiors. But the cloth was folded and put away at last, the buttery-hatch closed, the fire adjusted, and the door shut. Aunt Anne gave a sigh of relief, then throwing her cloak back over the chair, she rose and stood irresolute on the hearth-rug. Florence went towards her. “Have you been anywhere by train?” she asked. “No, my love. I went to the station to meet some one.” She trembled with excitement while she spoke. Florence noticed it with wonder. “What is it, Aunt Anne?” she asked gently. The old lady stretched out her two thin hands, and suddenly dropped her head for a moment on Florence’s shoulder; but she raised it quickly, and evidently struggled to be calm. “My darling,” she said, “I know you will sympathize with me, I know your loving heart. I knew it the first day I saw you, when you were at Rottingdean, and stood under the pear-tree with your dear Walter——” “Yes, oh yes, dear——” Florence had so often heard of that pear-tree. But what could it have to do with the present situation?