Then the practical side of Florence’s nature spoke up in despair. “But, Aunt Anne, he—is very poor.” “I know he is poor, but he is young and strong and hopeful; and he will work. He says he will work like a slave for me; and if he is content to face poverty with me, how can I be afraid to face it with him?” “But you want comforts, and——” “Oh no, my love. My tastes are very simple, and I shall be content to do without them for his sake.” “But at your time of life, dear Aunt Anne, you do want them—you are not young—as he is.” Then Mrs. Baines burst into tears, tears that were evidently a blessed relief, and had been pent up in her poor old heart, waiting for an excuse to come forth. “Florence, I did not think you would tell me of my age. If I do not feel it, and he does not, why should you remind me of it? And why should you tell me that he is poor? Do you suppose that I am so selfish or—or so depraved that I would sell myself for comfort and luxury? If he can face poverty with me, I can face it with him.” “Yes, yes, but——” The old lady did not heed her, and went on breathlessly— “I did think, Florence, that you would have been kind to me, and understood and sympathized. I told him that on your heart and Walter’s I could rely. You know how lonely I have been, how desolate and how miserable. But for your bounty and goodness I should have died——” “Oh no——” “And now, in this great crisis—now, when a young, brave, beautiful life is laid at my feet, now that I am loved as truly as ever woman was loved in this world, as tenderly as Walter loves you, Florence, you fail me, as—as if”—she put her hand to her throat to steady her quivering voice—“as if you would not let me taste the cup of happiness of which you drink every day.” “But, Aunt Anne, it isn’t that indeed,” Florence answered, thinking despairingly of Walter, and wishing that she could begin writing that very minute, asking him what on earth she ought to say or do. “It is that—that—it is so unexpected, so strange. I knew, of course, that you liked him, that you were good friends; but I never dreamt that he was in love with you.” Aunt Anne’s tears seemed to vanish as if by magic, her left eye winked almost fiercely, her lips opened, but no sound came. With a great effort she recovered her voice at last, and with some of her old dignity, dashed with severe surprise, she asked— “My darling, is there any reason why he should not love me?” She stood gravely waiting for a reply, while Florence felt that she was managing badly, that she was somehow hurting and insulting Aunt Anne. After all, the old lady had a right to do as she liked; it was evident that she was incapable of taking in the absurdity of the situation. “But, Aunt Anne——” she began and stopped.