“You were determined to have a new one, weren’t you?” “I thought it would be unlucky if I didn’t, though there wasn’t anybody but you to see it. It isn’t that I care for money, Alfred,” she went on—“don’t think it. It’s only mother that makes the fuss. We’ll pay her up quick when we’ve got it, and we’ll be awfully good to grandmother; but, as for me, I wouldn’t care if you hadn’t a penny. It’s only you I want.” “And it’s only you I want,” he said, with a little cough that belied his words. “What is that rustling, Alfred—is there any one about?” “It’s only the rain among the grass and leaves; I wish it’d leave off—I ought to be getting in.” “What time is she coming from London?” “I expect she’ll be here soon now. You had better give me that money, Caroline.” “It’s hidden in my dress—wait till I get it out. I hope mother won’t hear I was paid, or she’ll wonder what I’ve done with it.” “I can’t do without a little money,” he said, in the tone Aunt Anne had often heard; “and the old woman is so close-fisted she expects me to account for everything she gives me.” “Well, there it is—twenty-two shillings and sixpence. I don’t want grandmother to know, for she said last time she wondered you liked taking it.” “A man has a right to his wife’s earnings,” he said firmly. “Well, I’ve got three dresses in the house to do; they’ll come to a good bit. It isn’t that I mind giving it. Alfred! there’s some one against the back of the shed.” “It’s only the branches of the trees brushing against it,” he said. “I must go back—the old woman will be coming home.” “Don’t go till it stops raining a bit,” she pleaded; “and put your arms tighter round me, I am not with you so often now. Aren’t you glad I am not an old woman?” “Ugh!”—and he made a sound of disgust again. “Old women make me sick.” “Well, you’ll be old long before I am,” she said, with a triumphant laugh. “My goodness! look at the rain.” Aunt Anne went slowly along the narrow pathway, down into the valley, and up towards the larch and fir-trees again. Her strength was almost spent when she reached the garden. She bent her head beneath the downpour, and dragged herself, in such frightened haste as she could manage, to the house. She stopped for a moment beneath the verandah, as if to be sure that she was awake. She looked, half incredulously down at her wet and clinging clothes, and then into the darkness and distance. Beyond the trees and across the valley she knew that two people were saying their good-byes. She imagined their looks and words, and their caresses. It seemed as if the whole world were theirs—it had been pulled from under her feet to make a heaven for them. She was trembling with cold and fear, but she told herself that there was one thing left at which she must clutch a little longer—her self-control and dignity.