“Put!” exclaimed the old lady; “why, the cold bacon, and the preserved cranberries, of course, and the honey and the buns.”
Florence thought that it sounded like the oddest meal in the world.
“I think we had better return, I do indeed, Aunt Anne, if you will kindly let us,” urged Walter, thinking regretfully of the chicken.
Aunt Anne waved her hand.
“Walter,” she answered grandly, “you shall not go until you have partaken of our hospitality. I wish it were a thousand times better than it is,” she added, with a pathetic note in her voice that found their hearts directly.
Walter put his hand on her shoulder like the simple affectionate fellow he was, and Florence hastened to say heartily—
“It sounds delightful, dear Aunt Anne; it is only that we——” And then there came slouching round the left side of the house a tall ungainly-looking man of about sixty, a man with a brown beard and brown trousers, carrying in his hand a newspaper. He looked at Walter and at Florence in almost stupid surprise, and turned from them with a grunt.
“Anne,” he said crossly, “where have you been? I have wasted all my morning looking for you; you knew those scarlet runners wanted tying up, and the sunflowers trimming. Who are these?” he asked, nodding at his visitors as coolly as if they had been out of hearing; “and what is that fly doing at the gate?”
“Why, I have been to Brighton, of course,” Aunt Anne answered bravely, lifting her head and looking him in the face, but there was a quaver of something like fear in her voice; “I told you I was going: I went by the omnibus.”
“What did you go to Brighton for? you were there only last week.” He lowered his voice and asked again, “Who are these?”