I felt almost as buoyant and light-hearted as a child when I caught sight of the old bridge and the grey towers of All Saints. The river looked blue and clear in the October sunshine; there were barges floating idly down the stream; a small steamer had just started from the tiny pier; two or three clumsy-looking boats with heavy brown sails were moored to the shore; there was a man in a red cap in one of the boats; two or three bare-legged urchins were wading in the water. There was a line of purple shadow in the distance, little sparkles of sunlight everywhere, yellow and red leaves streaming, a little skiff with a man in white flannel coming rapidly into sight, omnibuses, cabs, heavy waggons clattering over the bridge. Beyond the white arches of the new bridge the busy hum of workers, the heaving of great cranes, the toil and strain of human activity. The sight always fascinated me, and I stood aside with others to watch until a well-known figure in the distance recalled me with a start. Surely that was Aunt Agatha crossing the road by the bridge; no one else walked in that way—that quick, straightforward walk, that never seemed to linger or hesitate, that could only belong to her. Yes, it was she, for there was the dear woman holding out her hands to me, with the old kind smile breaking over her face. “I came to meet you, Merle; I did not want to lose one minute of your company, but I was a little late after all, dear child. What a stranger you are, all these months that we have not met!” “It has seemed a long time to me, Aunt Agatha, so much seems to have happened since I was last here.” “You may well say so,” she returned, gravely; “we have both much for which to be thankful. Your accident, Merle, which might have had such grave results, and——” here she checked herself, but something in her manner seemed strange to me. “We need not walk quite so fast, surely,” I remonstrated. “How these people jostle one, and I want to talk to you so.” “And I to you. Never mind, we shall find a quiet corner under the shadow of St. Mary’s.” And as she spoke we turned into the narrow flagged path skirting the church, with the tombs and grey old headstones gleaming here and there. There were fewer people here. “Are you sure you are quite well?” I began, rather anxiously. “You are looking paler than usual, Aunt Agatha, and, if it be not my fancy, a little thinner.” “Yes, and older, and perhaps a trifle graver,” she returned, rather briskly; but I thought her cheerfulness a little forced. “We have not yet learnt how to grow younger, child. Well, if you must know, and this is why I came to meet you, that we might have our little talk together. I have not been without my troubles; your uncle has been very ill, Merle, so ill that, at one time, I feared I might lose him; but Providence has been good to me and spared my dear husband.” And here Aunt Agatha’s voice trembled and her eyes grew misty.