A moment later there entered a sturdy boy of six, with eyes like his father’s, and a girl of three and a half, with nut-brown hair hanging down her back.
“We are come, mummy,” they exclaimed joyfully, as their mother, taking their fat hands in hers, led them up to Aunt Anne. The old lady took them in her arms and kissed them.
“Bless them,” she said, “bless them. I should have known them anywhere. They couldn’t be any one else’s children. My darlings, do you know me?” Monty drew back a little way and looked at her saucily, as if he thought the question rather a joke.
“No, we don’t know you,” he answered in a jovial voice, “we don’t know you a bit.”
“Bless him,” exclaimed Aunt Anne, and laughed aloud for glee. “He is so like his father, it makes me forget all my sorrows to see him. My dear children,” she went on, solemnly addressing them, “I did not bring you anything, but before the day is finished you shall have proof that Aunt Anne loves you. Good-bye, my dears, good-bye;” and she looked at their mother with an expression that said plainly, “Send them away.”
Florence opened the door and the children pattered back to the nursery. When they had gone Mrs. Baines rose.
“I must go too,” she said sadly, as if she had overtaken her griefs and sorrows again, “for I am no longer my own mistress. Remember that, dear, when you think of me, or when you and Walter converse together.”
“But it is nearly one o’clock, will not you stay and lunch? Walter might come, and he would be so glad to see you,” Florence said anxiously, remembering that as yet she had done nothing to help the old lady, and without her husband she felt it was too awkward a task to attempt.
“No, my dear, no; but I shall come again when you least expect me, on the chance of finding you at home.”
“And is there nothing I can do for you, Aunt Anne?” Florence asked hesitatingly, “no way in which I can be useful to you?”