Florence divined the meaning of the question instantly.
“Oh, I don’t know, Aunt Anne; after Witley comes Hindhead, and then Liphook, and then Petersfield, and then—then I don’t know. Liphook is the place where Mr. Wimple”—the old lady winked to herself—“has friends, and sometimes goes to stay.”
“And how far is that?”
“About six miles, I think—six or seven.”
“Thank you, my love; and now, if you will allow me, I will retire. I must make preparations for my journey, which is indeed a delightful anticipation.”
Florence never forgot the October morning on which she took Aunt Anne and the children to Witley. They went from Waterloo. She thought of Walter and the day they had spent at Windsor, and of that last one on which they had gone together to Southampton, and she had returned alone. “Oh, my darling,” she said to herself, “may you grow well and strong, and come back to us soon again.”
Mrs. Baines, too, seemed full of memories. She looked up and down the platform; she stood for a moment dreamily by the bookstall before it occurred to her to buy a cheap illustrated paper to amuse Catty and Monty on the journey.
“My love,” she said to Florence, with a little sigh, “a railway station is fraught with many recollections of meeting and parting——”
“And meeting again,” said Florence, longingly thinking of Walter.
“Yes, my love,” the old lady answered tenderly; “and may yours with your dear one be soon.”