“That is true, my dear, and I shall be glad to be alone for a little while, if you will forgive me for saying it. There is an announcement in the paper that gives me the deepest pain, Florence. Sir William Rammage is ill again—he is confined to his room.”
“Oh, poor Aunt Anne!”
“I must write to him instantly. I felt sure there was some good reason for his not having told me his decision in regard to the allowance.” Then, as if she had suddenly remembered the little scrimmage of the morning, she went on quickly, “My love, give me a kiss. Do not think that I am angry with you. I never could be that; but it is unpleasant at my time of life to be made to give an exact account of money. You will remember that, won’t you, dear? I should never expect it from you. If I had hundreds and hundreds a year I would share them with you and your darlings, and I would ask you for no accounts, dear Florence. I should think that the money was as much yours as mine. You know it, don’t you, my love?”
“Yes, dear, I think I do,” Florence answered, and kissed the old lady affectionately, thinking that perhaps, after all, she had made rather too much fuss.
“Then let us forget about it, my darling,” Mrs. Baines said, with the gracious smile that always had its influence; “I could never remember anything long of you, but your kindness and hospitality. Believe me, I am quite sure that you did not mean to wound me this morning. It was your zealous care of dear Walter’s interests that caused you for a moment to forget what was due to me. I quite understand, my darling. Now go for your walk, and be assured that Aunt Anne loves you.”
And Florence was dismissed, feeling as the children had felt the evening before when they had been sent to bed and told of the chocolate under their pillows.
