give me, my love; it is not that I do not appreciate your hospitality—yours and Walter's- I do. But I feel that it would sadden all my dear ones who are gone, if they knew that I was alone in the world, without a home of my own. That is why it for the honor of the family.. I told him how impossible it was that I could go on living upon you and Walter, that it would be a disgrace. I could not live upon him either. He has shown me so little sympathy, my love, that I could not endure it. I shall take the allowance from him as II went to Sir William Rammage, Florshould take an inheritance, knowing that ence; and though he said little, I feel it is not given to me for my own sake. I sure that he saw the matter in a proper could not take it in any other spirit; but light, and felt as I do about it." it would be as wrong in him to forget what "What did he say?" is due to us, as it would be in me to let him do so. It would shed dishonor on his name." And again she was silent, she seemed to be living over the past, to be groping her way back among days that were over before Florence was ever born, to be seeing people whose very names had not been heard for years. 66 They would rise in their graves if I were left to starve," she continued, "I have always felt it; and it was but right towards them that I should go to William; it was due to them even that I should live on you and Walter, my darling, till I received an adequate income." Suddenly her voice changed again, the wonderful smile came back-the happy look that always seemed as if it had travelled from the youth she had left long years behind. "You understand, my love?" she asked. "Bless you for all your kindness, but I am not going to intrude upon you much longer. I have already seen an apartment that will, I think, suit my requirements." 66 Oh, no." "Yes, my love, it will be much better. You cut me to the quick this morning, Florence," and her voice grew sad; "you said that you would have to send away your dear children because my influence would spoil them." "Aunt Anne!" Florence began in consternation. "Yes, dear, yes," the old lady said solemoly, "it gave me the deepest pain, as I sat and thought it over in the privacy of my own chamber. But when I came down-stairs and you shared your dear mother's gift with me, I knew that you loved me sincerely." "He said he would think it over, and when he had made up his mind he would write to me. My love, would you permit me to ring the bell?" Yes, of course. Why do you always ask me? Don't you feel at home here, dear Aunt Anne?" Florence asked, thinking that Sir William's answer had, after all, committed him to little. "I hope I shall never so far forget myself as not to treat you with the courtesy that you have a right to expect, my darling. I will never take advantage of our relationship. Jane," she said, with quite another manner, and in a cold and slightly haughty tone, to the servant who had entered, "would you have the goodness to divest me of my cloak?-and if your mistress gives you permission, perhaps you would carry it up to my room?" 66 Yes, ma'am," said Jane respectfully, but without much willingness in her manner. The servants had learned to resent the tone in which Mrs. Baines usually spoke to them. "She treats us like dirt," the housemaid explained to the cook; "and if we're made of dirt, I should like to know what she's made of? She gave me a shilling the other day, and another time a new apron done up in a box from the draper's; but I don't care about her for all her presents. I know she always sees every speck of dust that others would be blind to; it's in her wink that she does." "And now, Aunt Anne, that you have told me all your news, I want you to listen to mine," Florence said. Then she gave an account of Mr. Fisher's visit, and of the letting of the house for a couple of months. "So, Aunt Anne," she continued trium"I do," said Florence soothingly. phantly, "I want you to be very, very good, "I am sure of it, my darling," with even and to go with the children and two of more solemnity, "but it will be better that the servants to the cottage at Witley toI should take an apartment. It will re-morrow, and to be the mistress of the joice your tender heart to know that by your gift you have helped me to secure one, and when I receive my allowance from Sir William I shall feel that I am independent once more. You must for great establishment, if you will, and mother to the children till I come; that proves how bad I think your influence is for them, doesn't it, you unkind old dear?" — and she stooped and kissed Mrs. Baines. Aunt Anne was delighted, and consented at once. with fir woods on either side. Gaps in the firs, and glimpses of the Surrey hills. "I shall never forget your putting this distant and blue, of hanging woods and confidence in me. You have proved your deep valleys. The firs came to an end; affection for me most truly," she said. and there were cliffs of gravel full of the "My dear Florence, your children shall holes of sand-martins. More woods, then have the most loving care that it is in my hedges of blackberry bushes, bare enough power to give them. I will look after now; gorse full of late bloom, heather everything till you come; more zealously faded and turning from russet to black. than you yourself could. Tell me, love, | Here and there a solitary house, masses where do you say the cottage is situated?" "It is near Witley, it is on the direct Portsmouth road; a sweet little cottage with a garden, and fir woods stretching on either side." "And how far is it from Portsmouth, my love?" Mrs. Baines asked eagerly. Florence divined the meaning of the question instantly. "Oh, I don't know, Aunt Anne; after Witley comes Hindhead, and then Lipbook, and then Petersfield, and then then I don't know. Liphook is the place where Mr. Wimple"-the old lady winked to herself “has friends and sometimes goes to stay." "And how far is that?" "About six miles, I think-six or "Thank you, my love; and now if you will allow me I will retire. I must make preparations for my journey, which is indeed a delightful anticipation." Florence never forgot the October morning on which she took Aunt Anne and the children to Witley. They went from Waterloo. She thought of Walter and the day they had spent at Windsor, and of that last one on which they had gone together to Southampton, and she had returned alone. "Oh, my darling,' she said to herself, "may you grow well and strong, and come back to us soon again." Mrs. Baines, too, seemed full of memories. She looked up and down the plat form; she stood for a moment dreamily by the book-stall before it occurred to her to buy a cheap illustrated paper to amuse Catty and Monty on the journey. "My love," she said to Florence, with a little sigh, "a railway station is fraught with many recollections of meeting and parting "And meeting again," said Florence, longingly thinking of Walter. Yes, my love," the old lady answered tenderly, "and may yours with your dear one be soon. There were three miles to drive from Witley to the cottage. A long white road, of oak and larch and fir; patches of sunshine; long wastes of shade, and the road going on and on. "Here we are at last," Florence said, as they stopped before a red-brick cottage that stood only a few yards back from the road. On either side of it was a fir plantation. There was a gravel pathway round the house, but the other paths were covered with tan. Behind stretched a wilderness of garden almost entirely uncultivated. There was a little footway that wound through it in and out among beeches and larches and firs and oaks, and stopped at last on the ridge of a dip that could hardly be called a valley. "Sometimes," said Florence, as they walked about, half an hour later, while the servants were busy within, 66 we go down the dip and up the other side, and so get over to Hindhead. It is nearer than going there by the road." "Our house is over there," the children said. "Their house,” explained Florence, “is a little, lonely, thatched shed, half a mile away. We don't know who made it. It is in a lovely part on the other side of the dip, among the straggling trees. Perhaps some one tethered a cow in it once. The children call it their house now, because one day they had tea there. After I return next week, we must try to walk across to it." But the old lady's eyes were turned towards the distance. "And the road in front of the house," she asked, "where does that go to?" "It winds round the Devil's Punch Bowl, and over Hindhead, and on through Liphook and Petersfield to Portsmouth." Aunt Anne did not answer, she looked still more intently into the distance, and gave a long sigh. "It is most exhilarating to be out of London again, my dear Florence," she said. "I sincerely trust it will prove beneficial to your dear ones. I was born in the country, and I hope that some day I shall die in it. London is most oppressive after a time." "I like London," Florence answered; "still it does now and then feel like a ling; mine to the past and yours to the prison." 66 And the rows and rows of houses are the prison bars, my love. May we enter the cottage?" she asked suddenly. She was evidently tired; she stooped, and looked older and more worn than usual. "Poor old dear!" Florence thought. "I hope she is not worrying about Madame Celestine's bill, and that she will soon hear from Sir William Rammage. Then she will be happier." It was a little house, simple inside as well as out, with tiny rooms, plainly fur nished. The dining-room had been newly done up, with cretonne curtains and a dado, and a buttery-hatch in which Florence took a certain pride as something rather grand for so small a place. The drawingroom was old-fashioned; a stiff, roomy sofa with hard, flat cushions at one end; at the other a sweet, jangling piano. There were corner cupboards with china bowls of pot-pourri on them; on either side of the fireplace a gaunt, high-backed easy-chair, and on the left of each chair an old-fashioned screen on which was worked a peacock. Aunt Anne stopped on the threshold. It seemed to Florence as if the room recognized the old lady, as if it had been waiting knowing that she would come. There was something about it that said more plainly than any words could have said that the hands were still that had first arranged it, and many footsteps had gone out from its doorway that would never come in at it more. "It always depresses me," Florence explained; "but it is just as we found it. We re-furnished the dining-room, and sit there a good deal. It is more cheerful than this. Come up-stairs". and she led the way. The bedrooms were all small too, save one in front, that seemed to match the drawing-room. It looked like a room to die in. A quaint four-post bedstead with dark chintz curtains, a worm-eaten bureau, a sampler worked in Berlin wool and framed in black cherry-wood hanging over the fireplace. "This is the best room," Florence said, "and we keep it for visitors. There is a little one, meant to be a dressing-room I suppose, leading out of it," and she went to a bright little nook with a bed in it. "I always feel that the best bedroom and the drawing-room belong to a past world, and the rest of the house to the present one." "It is like your life and mine, my dar present." "I think you ought to sleep in the best room, Aunt Anne.' "No, my love," the old lady interrupted, "let me have this little one which is next it. When you require the other, if I am still with you, I can lock the door between. The best one is too grand for me; but sometimes while it is empty I will go in, if you have no objection, and look out at the fir-trees and the road that stretches right and left "I like doing that," Florence interrupted. "It always sets me thinking the road from the city to the sea.' From the city to the sea,' the old lady repeated, "from the voices to the silences." 66 "Aunt Anne, we mustn't grow sentimental". Florence began. There was the sound of a tinkling bell. It seemed to come at an opportune moment. 'Oh, happy sound! she laughed; "it means that our meal is ready. Catty, darling," she called, "Monty, my son, roast chicken is waiting down-stairs. Auntie and mummy are quite ready; come, dear babes patter, patter, came the sound of the little feet, and together they all went down. and An hour later the fly came to the door; it was time for Florence to start on her way back to town. "I shall be with you at latest on Tuesday. Perhaps, dear Aunt Anne, if you don't mind taking care of the bad children so long, I may go on Saturday for a day or two to an old schoolfellow," she said. "Then I should not be here till the middle of next week." "Dear child, you do, indeed, put confidence in me," Mrs. Baines answered quaintly. "And, Aunt Anne, I have ordered most things in, but the tradespeople come every day if there is anything more you want, and here is some money. Four pounds, I think, will carry you through; and here is a little book in which to put down your expenses. I always keep a most careful account, you don't mind doing so either, do you?" 66 'My love, anything you wish will be a pleasure to me.' "If you please, ma'am,” said Jane, entering," the driver says you must start at once if you want to catch this train." "Then good-bye dear Aunt Anne; goodbye, dear dickie-birds; be happy together. You shall see me very soon again; send me a letter every other day; and with many embraces Florence was allowed to 66 ette, and kissed their hands and waved get out of the door. But Aunt Anne and "I came to see Mrs. Baines," she said, CHAPTER IX. THE days that followed were busy ones for Florence - busy in a domestic sense, so that the history of them does not concern us here. Mr. Fisher called one afternoon; by a strange coincidence it was while Ethel Dunlop was helping Florence with an inventory of china. Miss Dunlop readily promised to visit his mother, but she did not show any particular interest in the editor. "He has been so kind," Florence said, "and don't you think he is very agree able?" “Oh yes, but you know, Florrie dear, he has a very square face." 66 "I am afraid she is very angry," Florence answered, half laughing, for the pretty woman before her did not seem like a stranger. "Do you want her again?” "Oh no," and Mrs. North shook her head emphatically. "No, indeed, that would be impossible; she led us a terrible life. But we loved her. I think we could have put up with anything if she had not quarrelled with the servants." "I was afraid it was that." "Oh yes," sighed Mrs. North, "she was horribly autocratic with them if'autocratic' is her own word. At last she quarrelled with Hetty and wanted me to send her away-to send away Hetty, who is a born treasure, and cooks like an angel. It would have broken our hearts "But why do you say never did? as we couldn't let her go, it was imposfas-sible, so the old lady fled." Florence was rather indignant. Before Florence could reply, a carriage "Mrs. North, ma'am," said the servant, and then Florence understood. She left Ethel in the dining-room with the inventory, and went up to receive the visitor. Mrs. North was as pretty as Aunt Anne had declared her to be; a mere girl to look at, tall and slim. Florence thought it was quite natural that her husband should like her to have a chape ron. "I am very sorry. You were so very kind to her, she always said that." "I loved her," Mrs. North answered, with a little sigh; "she was so like my dear dead mother grown old, that was the secret of her attraction for us; but she ruled us with a rod of iron that grew more and more unyielding every day; and yet she was very kind. She was always giving us presents." "Oh yes," said Florence, in a despairing voice. "We have had the bills for them since," Mrs. North went on, with a comical air. "She used to say that I was very frivolous," she added suddenly. "She thought it wicked of me to enjoy life while my husband was away. But he's fifty, Mrs. Hibbert; one may have an affection for a husband of fifty, but one can't be in love with him." "If she were very nice she would not have made that remark to me, whom she never saw before," Florence thought, beginning to dislike her a little. "Of course I am sorry he is away," Mrs. North said, as if she perfectly un derstood the impression she was making. | for she thinks the old lady has vanished He into space. She came to me yesterday. "I shall be glad when he returns. will rule me then. I took Mrs. Baines It seems that she went to you a few days because he wished me to have an old lady about me; but I wanted my own way. I liked her to have hers when it amused me to see her have it; when it didn't I wanted to have mine." And Mrs. North looked up with two blue eyes that fascinated and repelled, and laughed a merry, uncontrolled laugh like a child's. Oh, she was very droll." 66 Perhaps it is very rude of me to say it," Florence said primly, for deep in her heart there was a great deal of primness, "but I can understand Mr. North wishing you to have a chaperon, you are very young to be left alone." "Oh yes, and very careless, I know that. And Mrs. Baines used to provoke me into shocking her. I could shock her so easily, and did - don't you know how one loves power for good or ill over a human being?" "No, I don't," Florence answered a little stiffly. "I do, I love it best of all things in the world, whether it leads me uphill or downhill. But I am intruding," for she saw a set, cold look coming over Florence's face. "Let me tell you why I asked for you. I have been so embarrassed about Mrs. Baines. She gave us presents and she bought all sorts of things; but she didn't pay for them. These bills came, and the people wanted their money." She pulled a little roll out of her pocket. "She probably forgot them, and I thought it would be better to pay them, especially as I owed her some money when she left which she would not take;" and she laughed out again, but this time there was an odd sound in her voice. 66 They are from florists and all sorts of people." Florence looked over the bills quickly and almost guiltily. There were the pots of fern and the flowers that had been sent to her and the children after Aunt Anne's first visit; and there were the roses with which she had triumphantly entered on the night of the dinner-party. "Oh, poor old lady!" she exclaimed sadly. "They are paid," Mrs. North said. "Don't be distressed about them and many others-lace-handkerchiefs, shoes, all sorts of things. Don't tell her. She would think I had taken a liberty or committed a solecism," and she made a little wry face. "But what I really wanted to see you about, Mrs. Hibbert, was Madame Celestine's bill. I am afraid I can't pay that all by myself; it is too long. Madame Celestine, of course, is sweetly miserable, ago, but you were out, and she was glad of it when she discovered that Mrs. Baines was your aunt, for she doesn't want to offend you. She came to me again to-day. She is very miserable. I believe it will turn her hair grey. Oh, it is too funny!" "I don't think it is at all funny." "But indeed it is, for I don't believe Mrs. Baines will ever be able to pay the fifteen pounds; in fact, we know that she won't. Probably it is worrying her a good deal. I have been wondering whether something could not be done; if you and I, for instance, were to pay it between us. S." "You are very good, Mrs. North," Florence said against her will. "Oh no, but I am sorry for her, and it vexes and worries me to think of her being annoyed. I want to get rid of that vexation, and will pay something to do so. That is what most generosity comes to," Mrs. North went on, with mock cynicism, "the purchase of a pleasant feeling for oneself, or the getting rid of an unpleasant one. There is little really unselfish goodness in the world, and when one meets it, as a rule, it isn't charming, it isn't fascinating, when one feels that one would rather be without it." She rose as she spoke. "Well," she asked, "what shall we do? I'll pay one half of the old lady's bill if you will pay the other half." "You are very good," Florence repeated wonderingly. "No; but I expect you are," and Mrs. North showed two rows of little white teeth. "I should think you are a model of virtue," she added, with an almost childlike air of frankness, which made it impos. sible to take offence at her words, though Florence felt that at best she was only regarded as the possessor of a quality that just before her visitor had denounced. 66 Why," she asked, smiling against her will, "do I look like a model of virtue? "Oh yes, you are almost Madonna-like,' Mrs. North said, with a sigh. "I wish I were like you, only-only I think I should get very tired of myself. I get tired now; but a reaction comes. But a reaction to the purely good must be tame at best." "You are very clever," Florence said, almost without knowing it, and shrinking from her again. "How do you know? My husband says I am clever, but I don't think I am. I am alive. So many people are merely in the preface to being alive, and never get any |