"Well, my dear, how are you? And where's Alfy? Have you not brought him with you?"
Rachel put her arm over her aunt's shoulder, and kissed her affectionately.
"I haven't brought him to-day, because I wanted to have a little quiet talk," she said. "Are you very busy, auntie?"
Mrs. Hardy was busy—she always was, from breakfast until lunch time; but she was impressed by a certain gentle gravity in Rachel's voice and manner, and understood that there was something of importance to be attended to. So she gathered up her papers, told her visitor to take off her hat and sit down, and inquired anxiously what was the matter.
"There is nothing the matter," said Rachel, with a little hesitation. "But, auntie dear, I am going to—do something, and I would not do it without telling you first."
She sat upon the edge of a chair, and leaned her arms on a corner of the writing-table; and she looked into the elder woman's face with wistful, longing, pleading eyes.
Mrs. Hardy had faint, instinctive premonitions.
"Well, my dear," she replied a little brusquely, "I shall be glad to advise you to the best of my power. But you are your own mistress now, you know." Then after a little pause, she said anxiously, "What is it you are going to do?"
"Auntie," faltered Rachel, "auntie—you know all about Mr. Dalrymple?"
"Rachel—my dear—you don't mean to say—! And your poor husband not six months in his grave!"