“No, my love, only Alfred has a great deal of work to do. It keeps him constantly at his chambers; and his health not being good, he is obliged to go out of town very often, so that, unwillingly”—and she winked sadly—“he is much away from me.” “What work is he doing?” Walter asked. “My dear,” she said, with gentle dignity, “you must forgive me for not answering that question, but I feel that he would not approve of my discussing his private affairs.” “Have you comfortable rooms in town?” Florence asked, in order to change the subject. “No, my love, they are not very comfortable, but we are not in a pecuniary position to pay a large rent.” She paused for a moment, and her face became grave and set. Florence, watching her, fancied that there was a little quiver to the upper lip. “Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne, I am certain you are not very happy—tell us what it is. We love you. Do tell us—is anything the matter? Is Mr. Wimple kind to you? Are you poor?” “Yes, do tell us!” Walter said, and put his arm round her shoulder, and gave it a little affectionate caress. She hesitated for a moment. “My dears,” she said gratefully, but a little distantly, “Alfred is very kind to me, but he is very much tried by our circumstances. He is not strong, and he is obliged to be separated from me very often. It causes him much regret, although he is too unselfish to show it.” “But you ought not to be very poor, if Wimple has lots of work,” Walter said. “I fear it is not very profitable work, dear Walter, and though I have an allowance from Sir William Rammage, it does not defray all our expenses”—and she was silent. Walter and Florence were silent too. They could not help it, for Aunt Anne had grown so grave, and she seemed to lose herself in her thoughts. Only once did she refer to the past. “Walter, dear,” she asked, “did you find my little gifts useful when you were away?” Aunt Anne always used to inquire after the wear and tear of her presents. “Indeed I did,” he answered heartily. “I was speaking of them only to-day—wasn’t I, Floggie?” But he concealed the fact that all the scissors were lost, lest she should want to give him some more. “Aunt Anne,” Florence asked, “isn’t there anything we could do for you? You don’t look very well.” “The spring is so trying, my love,” the old lady said gently. “I expect you want a change quite as much as Mr. Wimple.” “Oh no, my love. I have been a little annoyed by my landlady, who was impertinent to me this morning. It depresses me to have a liberty taken with me.” Perhaps the rent was not paid, Florence thought, but she did not dare to ask. Aunt Anne shivered and pulled her shawl round her again, and explained that she had not put on her warm cloak, as it was so sunny and bright, and the people in the Park might have observed that it was shabby; and while she was talking a really brilliant idea came to Walter.