understood—it was faded and frayed; she had put it into her pocket to mend. She looked at it wonderingly for a moment, then kissed it with a vehemence that was almost passion. “He thinks I cannot love,” she said; “I am convinced that is it. If he did but know—if he did but know.” The servant who opened the door at Portman Square instantly recognized her, and was disposed to treat her with more respect than on a former occasion. “Mr. Boughton is not here, ma’am,” he said, in answer to her inquiry. “Would you give me the address of his office?” “I can give you the address, but he is away in Scotland, and not expected back for another fortnight.” Aunt Anne stood dumbfounded for a moment, then slowly she looked up at the servant, with a little smile that had its effect. “It is very unfortunate,” she said; “my business with him is most pressing. Have you good accounts of Sir William?” “Sir William is back, ma’am. He returned last week, but he is confined to his room with another attack.” “Does he keep his bed?” “Well, he is sitting by the fire just now, ma’am, writing some letters.” In a moment Aunt Anne had whisked into the house; she felt quite exhilarated. “Be good enough to take my name to him, and ask if he is sufficiently well to see his cousin, Mrs.—Mrs. Baines”—she hesitated over the last word; “say that I am extremely solicitous to have a few minutes’ conversation with him.” “I am afraid he won’t be able to see you——” the servant began. “Have the goodness to take up my name.” “I am afraid——” the servant began again. “And say I wish to see him on a matter of great importance,” she went on imperiously, not heeding the interruption. She walked towards the dining-room door, as if she had a right to the entire house, but suddenly turned round. “I feel certain Sir William will see me,” she said, “and I will follow you upstairs.” Helplessly the servant obeyed her, and unfalteringly the soft footstep pattered after him up to the second floor. Then he entered the front bedroom, while she remained on the landing. “Mrs. Baines wishes to know if she can speak to you, sir,” she heard him say. “Tell her I am too ill to see any one,” a thin, distinct voice answered. “She says it is a matter of extreme importance, sir.” “I am writing letters, and don’t wish to be disturbed: bring my chicken-broth in twenty minutes.” But a moment later, and Aunt Anne had whisked also into the room, passing the servant who was leaving it.