“My dear,” Aunt Anne said impressively, “except to yourself, his name will never pass my lips again. I feel that it is desecration to my dear Walter and Florence to mention it in their house. I shall never forgive myself for having brought him into it. But perhaps all I have suffered is some expiation; you and I have both felt that about our frailty”—and she shook her head. “What is the good news?” “Mr. Boughton brought it, and it is about Sir William’s money.” Mrs. Baines was silent for a moment; then she looked up, with a little wink, and a smile came to her lips. “I should like to see him,” she said. “But will you help me to get up first? I think if I could sit by the open window I should be better.” “Perhaps you would, you dear; it’s warm enough for summer. Let me help you into your dressing-gown. Stay, you shall wear mine. It is very smart, with lavender bows; quite proper half-mourning for a cousin. There—now—gently”—and she helped the old lady into the easy-chair by the window. It was a long business, but at last she was safely there, with the sunshine falling on her, and the soft lace and lavender ribbons of Mrs. North’s dressing-gown about her poor old neck. “And are you sure it’s good news, my love?” she asked Mrs. North. “I am quite sure,” Mrs. North answered, as she tucked an eider-down quilt round Aunt Anne. “He has come from London on purpose to bring it to you.” “Has he partaken of any refreshment since he arrived?” “No; but I will have some ready for him when he comes down from his talk with you. Now you shall have your _tête-à-tête_”—and Mrs. North went back to the lawyer. “You must break it to her very, very gently, and you mustn’t be more than five or ten minutes with her,” she said, as she took him up to the bedroom door. Aunt Anne was so much fatigued with the exertion of getting up that she found it a hard matter to receive Mr. Boughton with all the courtesy she desired to show him. She took the news of her fortune very quietly; it did not even excite her. “It is too late,” she said. “Nothing can solace me for what I have lost; but it will enable me to make provision for my dear Walter and Florence.” Her eyes closed; her head sank on her breast; she put out her hand towards the window, as if to clutch at something that was not there. Mr. Boughton saw it, and understood. “I cannot repay you for your kindness and consideration,” she went on presently. “Even when I have discharged my pecuniary obligation I shall still remain your debtor. But there are some things I should like to do. I wish Mrs. North to have a sum of money; I will tell her my wishes in regard to it.” “Perhaps I had better return in a day or two. You must forgive me for saying, my dear madam, that, with the vast sum that is now at your disposal, you ought to make a will immediately. I could take instructions now if you like.”