for coming by the earlier train,” she thought, with some misgiving. “I will explain to him that I had finished my commissions in town sooner than I had anticipated, and, seeing that the weather was not likely to improve, I thought it better to return, even at the risk of his displeasure.” The governess-cart was waiting for her. “I brought an umbrella,” Lucas said, “as it was raining. I noticed you went without one this morning, and the weather has come on that unexpected bad, I was afraid you would get wet through.” “I am most grateful for your thoughtfulness,” Aunt Anne said, with distant graciousness. She put her bag out of reach of the rain, and cared little for herself. She was too full of other matters to trouble about the weather. As she went along the straight road, of which by this time she knew every yard, she mentally counted up the shillings in her pocket, and considered that she ought to give one of them to Lucas. “He has been most attentive,” she said, and she managed to extract the coin from her pocket, and put it into her black silk glove, ready for the end of the journey, which she considered would be the right moment to present it. The rain came down steadily. It was no longer aslant or fitful, and in the sky overhead there were no changing clouds. “I fear you have had an unfavourable day,” she said to Lucas. “It has rained mostly all the time. I hope you won’t catch cold, ma’am. I thought I saw you with a cloak this morning; have you left it behind?” Aunt Anne resented the question; she thought it was unduly familiar, and she answered coldly, “I have left it behind—for a purpose. It required renovating,” she added. “I might have brought you a shawl, or something, if I had known. I called at the house as I passed to see if Mr. Wimple would like to come and meet you. But he wasn’t in.” “I hope he is not out in the rain,” she thought. “Did the servant say if he had been out long?” she asked. “She said he had been gone about an hour. It’s a pity I missed him.” “He probably had an engagement,” she said, and a little uneasiness stole over her. Another mile. She could scarcely conceal her impatience. “Couldn’t the pony run up this little hill?” she asked. “It could,” said Lucas, rather contemptuously; “but Mrs. Burnett don’t like him to run uphill, she don’t—she thinks it’s bad for him.” Aunt Anne was too much engrossed in her own thoughts to answer. “He goes faster than the donkey did last year, anyhow, ma’am; do you mind the donkey?” “I frequently drove him.” “He was a deal of trouble, he was,” Lucas went on; “and they didn’t do well by him—gave four pound ten for him, and when they come to sell him a year later they only got two pound five.” “So that they were mulcted of just half the sum for which they had purchased him,” she said absently, having quickly reckoned up the loss in her head. “Was there any reason for that?”