Suddenly her voice changed again, the wonderful smile came back—the happy look that always seemed as if it had travelled from the youth she had left long years behind.
“You understand, my love?” she asked. “Bless you for all your kindness, but I am not going to intrude upon you much longer. I have already seen an apartment that will, I think, suit my requirements.”
“Oh no.”
“Yes, my love, it will be much better. You cut me to the quick this morning, Florence,” and her voice grew sad; “you said that you would have to send away your dear children because my influence would spoil them.”
“Aunt Anne!”—Florence began in consternation.
“Yes, dear, yes,” the old lady said solemnly; “it gave me the deepest pain, as I sat and thought it over in the privacy of my own chamber. But when I came downstairs and you shared your dear mother’s gift with me, I knew that you loved me sincerely.”
“I do,” said Florence, soothingly.
“I am sure of it, my darling,” with even more solemnity, “but it will be better that I should take an apartment. It will rejoice your tender heart to know that by your gift you have helped me to secure one, and when I receive my allowance from Sir William I shall feel that I am independent once more. You must forgive me, my love; it is not that I do not appreciate your hospitality—yours and Walter’s—I do. But I feel that it would sadden all my dear ones who are gone, if they knew that I was alone in the world, without a home of my own. That is why I went to Sir William Rammage, Florence; and though he said little, I feel sure that he saw the matter in a proper light, and felt as I do about it.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he would think it over, and when he had made up his mind he would write to me. My love, would you permit me to ring the bell?”