“But, Aunt Anne, but, Aunt Anne——”
“Well, my love?” the old lady asked with calm dignity.
“He—he is much younger than you,” she said at last, bringing out her words slowly, and hating herself for saying them.
“Age is not counted by years, my darling; and if he does not feel my age a drawback, why should I count his youth one? He loves me, Florence, I know he loves me,” Aunt Anne broke out in a passionate, tearful voice, “and you would not have me throw away or depreciate a faithful heart that has been given me?”
Then the practical side of Florence’s nature spoke up in despair. “But, Aunt Anne, he—is very poor.”
“I know he is poor, but he is young and strong and hopeful; and he will work. He says he will work like a slave for me; and if he is content to face poverty with me, how can I be afraid to face it with him?”
“But you want comforts, and——”
“Oh no, my love. My tastes are very simple, and I shall be content to do without them for his sake.”
“But at your time of life, dear Aunt Anne, you do want them—you are not young—as he is.” Then Mrs. Baines burst into tears, tears that were evidently a blessed relief, and had been pent up in her poor old heart, waiting for an excuse to come forth.
“Florence, I did not think you would tell me of my age. If I do not feel it, and he does not, why should you remind me of it? And why should you tell me that he is poor? Do you suppose that I am so selfish or—or so depraved that I would sell myself for comfort and luxury? If he can face poverty with me, I can face it with him.”