“I am old!” she cried; “I am old, I am old”—and, with a quick movement, as if she felt a horror of herself, she hid her thin hands out of sight. “I cannot bear it—I am old.” [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. Before nine the next morning, Aunt Anne was ready to set out on her journey to London. Mrs. Burnett’s governess-cart was at the gate with Lucas, the gardener, to drive her to the station. Alfred Wimple looked on at her preparations to go with an anxiety that was almost eagerness; and, stealthily, the old lady watched his every movement. “Jane can prepare the dinner after my return. I shall bring back some little dainty with me, hoping that it may tempt you, my love.” “I am very tired of the food we have had lately,” he said ungraciously. “What train are you coming back by?” “That will depend on my occupations in town,” she answered, after a moment’s consideration. “I will go to the station at half-past six. You can leave Waterloo Station at five fifteen.” Aunt Anne winked slowly. “I will try to come by an earlier train, my darling, if you will be there to relieve me of the packages with which I hope to be burdened.” “No. Come by the five fifteen,” he said decisively. “I have some letters to write.” “Very well, my love,” she answered, with tender courtesy. “It is always a pleasure to study your wishes, even in trifles. Would you assist me with my cloak, dear Alfred?” “It isn’t cold, and you have your shawl. Why are you taking this heavy cloak?” “I have my reasons.” He understood perfectly. He felt a gleam of almost fiendish triumph as, one by one, she divested herself of her belongings to buy him food and comfort. As she was going out of the doorway an idea seemed to strike him. “Anne,” he said, “remember it is no good bringing back a few shillings—you must bring back a few pounds at least.” “Have you any anxieties?—any payment it is imperative that you should make?” she asked anxiously. “Yes,” he answered, with a little smile to himself, as if an idea had been suggested to him. “I have a payment to make.” “I will do all I can—more for your sake than my own, dear Alfred,” and she turned to go. They were in the drawing-room. She hesitated for a moment by the door. “My love,” she said, going up to him doubtfully, “will you kiss me? You will never know how much I love you—you are all I have in the world.” The cashmere shawl clung to her and the heavy cloak swung back from her arms as she put them up round his neck and kissed him, first on one side of his face and then on the other; but even as she did so, and though for once he strove to hide it, she felt that, inwardly, he was shrinking. “I will be back by half-past six o’clock,” she said, with a hopeless tone in her voice, and, slowly letting go her hold, she went out of the house.