Mrs. North went to the window, and looked out once more. “I feel like sister Anne on the watch-tower,” she said to herself. “If they would only come.” Suddenly a dread overcame her. Florence and Walter knew nothing of Alfred Wimple’s conduct. They might arrive, and, before she had time to tell them, by some chance word cause Aunt Anne infinite pain. The shame and humiliation seemed to have gone out of the old lady’s life during the last day or two. It would be a cruel thing to remind her of it. She had made herself ready to meet death. It was coming to her gently and surely, with thoughts of those she loved, and a remembrance of the days that had been before the maddening shame of the past year. Mrs. North went downstairs. Jane Mitchell was in the kitchen. “Is there any way of sending a note to the station?” she asked. “Why, yes, ma’am; Lucas would take it with the pony-cart.” “Go to him, ask him to get ready at once, and come to me for the letter.” As shortly as possible she wrote an account of all that had taken place at the cottage, and explained her own presence there. “Take this at once to the station-master, and ask him to give it to Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert the moment they arrive, and to see that they come here by the fastest fly that is there.” And once more she went up to the front bedroom. Aunt Anne was sleeping peacefully; a little smile was on her lips. Mrs. North went to the window, and looked up and down the long straight road, and over at the fir-trees. Presently Lucas came by with the pony-cart; he touched his hat, pulled the note out of his pocket to show that he had it safely, and drove on in the sunshine. The birds were twittering everywhere. A clump of broom was nearly topped with yellow; some spots of gold were on the gorse. Half an hour. Aunt Anne still slept. Mrs. North put her arms on the window-sill, and rested her head down on them with her face turned to the road that led to the station. “If only the Hibberts would come,” she said. “Oh, if they would come.” The long morning went into afternoon. A change came over Aunt Anne. It was plain enough this time. She spoke once, very gently and so indistinctly that Mrs. North could hardly make out the words, though she bent over her, trying to understand. “Aunt Anne, dear, do you know me?” A smile came over the old lady’s face. She was thinking of something that pleased her. “Yes, dear Walter,” she said, “you must get some chocolates for those dear children, and I will reimburse you.” Then the little woman, who had watched so bravely, broke down, and, kneeling by the bedside, sobbed softly to herself. “Oh, they must come; oh, they must come,” she whispered. “Perhaps I had better rouse her a little,” she thought after a little while, and slipped her arm under the old lady’s shoulder. “Aunt Anne—Aunt Anne, dear,” she said, “Walter and Florence are coming; they are hurrying to you, do you hear me?”