“Well, you see, this was it,” said Lucas—“when gentry first come to live about here they took to keeping donkeys, so donkeys went up; then after a bit they found they wouldn’t go, and they took to selling them and buying ponies, so donkeys went down. I am afraid you are getting very wet, ma’am. I wish I had thought to bring a rug to cover you. But here we are at the house, and you’ll be able to dry yourself by the fire.” “Thank you, Lucas, thank you,” and she slipped the shilling into his hand, and, taking her bulging bag from under the seat, walked into the house by the back door. “Jane,” she asked, the moment she crossed the threshold, “where is Mr. Wimple?” “He went out an hour and a half ago, ma’am, or a little more perhaps.” “Do you know in what direction he went?” “Well, last time I saw him he was in the garden; then I see him going down the dip.” She was silent for a moment, then she asked gently— “Was he at home all the morning?” and received an answer in the affirmative. She was silent, and seemed to turn something over in her mind. “You are quite sure he went down the dip, and not much more than an hour and a half ago?” She stood by the kitchen fire, and she spoke absently. “I have brought a sole for dinner,” she said. “I must ask you to cook it more carefully than you did the last one, Jane. Mr. Wimple is most particular about fish—he cannot eat it unless it is quite dry. After the sole there is a chicken and some asparagus. Give me my bag—there are some other things in it, and a bottle of claret at the bottom, which I wish put on the dining-room mantelshelf for an hour. I trust you have made a good fire, Jane?” “Yes, ma’am; but I had to do it of wood, for the coals are nearly out.” “I prefer wood; it is not my intention to have in more coal just yet,” said Aunt Anne, firmly. “Where have you put the primroses I brought? I wish to arrange them in a bowl for the centre of the table.” “Hadn’t you better take off your shawl first, ma’am—it’s wringing wet—and let me make you a cup of tea?” “No, thank you, I will not trouble you to do that,” Aunt Anne said gently. “But put Mr. Wimple’s slippers by the fire in the dining-room.” She went into the drawing-room and held a match to the grate, and stood beside it while the paper blazed and the wood crackled, thinking that she and Alfred would sit over the fire cosily that evening after dinner.