She put down the paper and sat thinking for a few minutes. Then she went to the writing-table in the corner by the fireplace, unlocked the corner drawer and took out a little china bowl in which she was in the habit of keeping the money she had in the house. Four pounds in gold and a five-pound note. She took out the note, put in a cheque, locked the drawer and waited.
When she heard the soft footsteps of Aunt Anne descending the stairs she went to the door nervously, uncertain how what she was going to do would be received. Mrs. Baines was dressed ready to go out. She was a little smarter than usual. Round her throat there was some soft white muslin tied in a large bow that fell on her chest and relieved the sombreness of her attire. The heavy crape veil she usually wore was replaced by a thinner one that had little spots of jet upon it.
“Aunt Anne, you look as if you were going to a party.”
The old lady was almost confused, like a person who is found out in some roguish mischief of which she is half, but only half, ashamed.
“My love, I only go to your parties,” she said; “there are no others in the world that would tempt me.”
“Can you come to me for five minutes before you start? I won’t keep you longer.”
“Yes, with pleasure,” Aunt Anne answered; “but it must only be for five minutes, if you will excuse me for saying so, for I have an appointment that I should deeply regret not being able to keep.”
Florence led the old lady to an easy-chair and shut the door. Then she knelt down by her side, saying humbly but with a voice full of joy, for she was delighted at what she was going to do—if Aunt Anne would only let her do it.
“I want to tell you that—that I had a letter from my mother this morning.”
“I know, my love. I hope she is well, and that you have no anxiety about her.”