“Yes, my love. I am living now on your generous kindness; don’t think that I am insensible to it. But for your tenderness, my darling, I should have been alone in a little lodging now, as I was when—when I was first left a widow.”
“I should not like to think of you in a little lodging, Aunt Anne,” Florence said gently; and then she added gaily, “but continue your adventures.”
Mrs. Baines gave a long sigh, and was silent for a moment. She sat down on the easy-chair and, as if she had not heard Florence’s interruption, went on with a strange tragic note in her voice—
“I never told you about that time, Florence. I had three pounds in the world when I came to London; just three pounds to maintain my position until I could find something to do. I had a little room at Kilburn—a little room at the top of the house; and I used to sit day after day, week after week, waiting. I had no coals, only a little spirit-lamp by which I made some water hot, then poured it into a jug and covered it over and warmed my hands by it; it was often an hour before it grew cold, my love.”
“But why did you not come to us?”
“I couldn’t,” the old lady answered in an obstinate tone. “I felt that it would not be treating you properly to present myself before you while I was so poor and miserable”—she paused and looked into the fire for a moment, then suddenly went on: “The woman at the corner where I went every morning to buy a newspaper, saw that I was poor, and presumed upon it. Once she said I looked nipped up, and asked me to sit down and get warm. I reproved her for familiarity, and never went to the shop again.”
“But perhaps she meant it for kindness?”
“She should have remembered her position, my love, and asked me in a different manner. There is nothing more painful to bear than the remembrance of one’s own rank in life when one has to encounter the hardships that belong by right to a lower class.” Aunt Anne paused again for a moment, and gave a long sigh before she went on: “We won’t go over it, my dear. If Mrs. North had shown less levity in her conduct and more consideration to me, I should have been there still instead of living on your charity.”
“Oh no, Aunt Anne.”
“Yes, my love, it is so; even though you love me and I love you, it is charity; and I felt it keenly when you resented my little offering of cream this morning—you, to whom I would give everything I possess.”