—“I shall never forget the picture you two made,” the old lady went on, not heeding the interruption; “I knew all that was in your dear heart then, just as I feel that you will understand all that is in mine now.” Her face was flushed, her eyes were almost bright, and there were tears in them; the left one winked tremulously. Florence looked at her in amazement. “What is it, Aunt Anne? Do tell me; tell me at once, dear?” she said entreatingly. “And where you have been, so late and in the dark.” For a moment Aunt Anne hesitated, then, with a gasp and a strong effort to be calm and dignified, she raised her head and spoke. “My dear—my dear, all this time I have been with Alfred Wimple. He loves me.” “He loves you,” Florence repeated, her eyes full of wonder; “he loves you. Yes, of course he loves you, we all do,” she said soothingly, too much surprised to speculate farther. “Yes, he loves me,” Aunt Anne said again, in an almost solemn voice, “and I have promised to be his wife.” “Aunt Anne!—to marry him!” “Yes, dear, to marry him,” and she waited as if for congratulations. “But, Aunt Anne, dear——” Florence began in astonishment, and then she stopped; for though she had had some idea of the old lady’s infatuation, she had never dreamt of its ending in matrimony. Mrs. Baines was excited and strange; it might be some delusion, some joke that had been played on her, for Mr. Wimple could not have seriously asked her to marry him. She waited, not knowing what to say. But Aunt Anne’s excitement seemed to be passing, and with a tender, pitiful expression on her face, she waited for her niece to speak. “But, Aunt Anne, dear,” was all Florence could say again in her bewilderment. “But what, Florence?” Mrs. Baines spoke with a surprised, half-resentful manner. “Have you nothing more to say to me, my love?” “But you are not really going to marry him, are you?” Florence asked, in an incredulous voice. The old lady answered in a terribly earnest one. “Yes, Florence, I am; and never shall man have truer, more loving help-meet than I will be to him,” she burst out heroically, holding herself erect and looking her niece in the face. There was something infinitely pathetic about her as she stood there, quivering with feeling and aching for sympathy, yet old, wrinkled, and absurd, her poor scanty hair pushed back and her weak eyes full of tears. For a moment there was silence. Then bewildered Florence broke out with— “But, Aunt Anne, but, Aunt Anne——” “Well, my love?” the old lady asked with calm dignity. “He—he is much younger than you,” she said at last, bringing out her words slowly, and hating herself for saying them. “Age is not counted by years, my darling; and if he does not feel my age a drawback, why should I count his youth one? He loves me, Florence, I know he loves me,” Aunt Anne broke out in a passionate, tearful voice, “and you would not have me throw away or depreciate a faithful heart that has been given me?”