“Thank you, no,” said Aunt Anne, in a tone that showed she was sensible of the desire to please her, but was, nevertheless, aware of her own position in society. “I do not require any refreshment; I have just partaken of an early lunch.” She turned, gratefully, to the fire when she was alone, and, putting her feet on the fender, faced her difficulties once more. She could not remember any human being in London from whom, under any pretext whatever, she could borrow. She was baffled and at bay. The memory of Sir William’s taunts vanished altogether as, with a fright that was gradually becoming feverish, she went over in her mind every possible means of raising even a few shillings—though a few shillings, she knew, would be virtually useless against the tide she had to stem. Of a very small sum she was already certain, for she had devised a means of raising it, but she feared it would only be sufficient to provide food for the evening, and perhaps for to-morrow—and then? She folded her hands and looked into the fire, shaking her head once or twice, as if various schemes were presenting themselves, only to be rejected. The clock on the mantelpiece struck half-past one; at half-past four her train left Waterloo Station. There was little time to lose. She got up, took off her cloak, and examined it carefully, then put it round her once more, fingering the clasp, while she fastened it, as if it were a thing she treasured. As she did so, her eye caught a little pile on the mantelpiece; it consisted of seven shillings in silver, with a half-sovereign on the top. She looked at it as if fascinated, and calculated precisely all it would buy. She remembered, with dismay, that Jane Mitchell’s weekly wages were due that evening, that Jane’s mother was ill, and the money was necessary. She heard again the hard voice in which Alfred had said, “Unless you bring back money, I shall not stay here any longer.” She could see his eyes, dull and unrelenting. “I know they would give it to me; I know that Walter and Florence would deny me nothing that was really for my happiness,” she thought, and rang the bell. “I fear I shall not be able to stay and see the children,” she said haughtily to the servant, but with a little excitement she could not keep out of her voice; “my train is, unfortunately, an early one. And would you tell their grandmother that I have ventured to borrow this seventeen shillings on the mantelpiece? I came up to town with less money than I find I require; I will write to her in a day or two, and return it.” “It’s the children’s money, ma’am; I heard their grandmother say they were to save it up for Christmas.” “Dear children,” said the old lady, with a little smile; “they will be delighted to hear that I have borrowed it. Tell them that Aunt Anne is their debtor. Give them these two sponge-cakes, they will think of me while they eat them.” She snapped her purse as she put the money into it, and left the house with a light footstep.