On the following morning, Mrs Fortescue received her promised letter from Mr Timmins. He sat down to write it almost immediately he had seen Florence off by the train, and it arrived by first post the next day. Mrs Fortescue was in the habit of having her letters brought up to her bedroom, where she used to read them, luxuriously sipping her tea and eating her thin bread and butter the while.

Florence was sound asleep in bed while Mrs Fortescue was reading the most startling information she had perhaps ever got in the course of her life. Mr Timmins’ letter ran as follows —

“My dear Madam, —

“I do not know whether the contents of this letter will surprise you, but, after all, they need scarcely do so, for I have never for a single moment given you to understand that you would have anything further to do with the Misses Heathcote after the period devoted to their education was over. That time has now been reached, and the sum of money left by their late father for their education has been expended in strict accordance with his directions.

“I have been happy enough to find a suitable home for the next three months for dear Brenda Heathcote, who will stay with my friend, Lady Marian Dixie, in London. Florence is at liberty to join her sister there whenever she wishes to do so. But from what I heard yesterday I rather gather that she may have inducements to remain on at Langdale for a short time. I am the last person in the world to interfere with any young girl’s predilections, provided they are in themselves innocent and suitable, and from what Brenda has mentioned to me, the man who has given his heart to Florence appears to be worthy of her. He will certainly be submitted to as severe a test as can be given to any man; but if he is worthy, he will not, I am sure, regret the noble and true wife that such a beautiful and good girl as Florence Heathcote will make him. If, on the other hand, he is unworthy of her, the sooner he shows himself in his true character, the better. As you probably know of this affair, I need not allude to it further. But what I have now to say to you is that your guardianship of my wards comes to an end on the twentieth of January. Until that date, I should be glad if you would keep Florence with you, and I will, of course, pay you in full for the maintenance of both girls, as Brenda’s leaving you at an earlier date was an unforeseen coincidence over which you had no control.

“You will receive your cheque weekly as heretofore, and if you have been in any way obliged to go to additional expense for the girls, pray add it to your account.

“Thanking you for all you have done for them in the past, —

“I am, yours faithfully, —

“James Timmins.”

Mrs Fortescue read this letter the first time in great bewilderment of mind. She did not in the least take it in. She had, in short, to read it from three to four times before its contents were in the least made clear to her. Even then she felt, as she expressed it, all in a muddle. She was also in a great rage, and considered herself most badly treated. The fact of the girls’ being poor did not once enter into her calculations. She only thought of herself. She, who had worked and slaved for these two young girls for long and anxious years, was to have nothing whatever to do with their future. They were to be handed over to nobody knew who. Brenda had already been taken from her. She was living with a rich woman – a person of title, who was doubtless paid an extravagant sum for her support. Florence might marry Michael Reid if she pleased. Where was she, Mrs Fortescue, to come in? She was left out of everything!

The angry woman was too indignant to finish her dressing. She hastily smoothed her hair, put on a becoming dressing-gown, and, with the open letter in her hand, went straight to Florence’s room. She gave a peremptory knock at the door and, when the girl said “Come in,” entered without ceremony.

“Mr Timmins’ letter has arrived, Florence. I must say that I consider both you and your sister have treated me shamefully – shamefully!”

Florence, who was half way through her toilet, and looked very sweet and pretty with her rich hair hanging about her neck and shoulders, and in a neat white embroidered dressing-gown, sank into a choir and looked full at Mrs Fortescue.

“I thought you would be sorry,” she said; “but I don’t think, after all, you are as much to be pitied as we are.”

“Now what in the world do you mean by that?”

“Why, didn’t he tell you?” said Florence. “You said you had heard from him.”

“Yes; I have. You are to stay with me till the twentieth of January, and then I have nothing further to do with you.”

“But surely, surely,” said Florence; “you would not wish to have anything to do with me after then, would you?”

“What in the world do you mean?” Florence coloured.

“I see he has not told you,” she said. “He ought to. It was not right of him to leave it to me. But I will tell you: I don’t really mind.”

“Oh – do speak out, child! You keep me so frightfully in suspense I can scarcely endure myself.”

“Well,” said Florence, “you would not care to keep us for nothing, would you?”

“Nothing! nothing! What does the girl mean? Why, surely you are rich? I gave Major Reid to understand yesterday that your yearly income must run into four figures. We were divided as to the amount, but I thought fifteen hundred a year each. Florence, what are you alluding to?”

Florence turned very white.

“It is awful only to be cared for because one has money,” she said. “Well, there is one person who cares for me quite independently of that. And now I will tell you the truth. I have not any money – that is, I have a few pounds. Mr Timmins gave me ten pounds yesterday, and I shall have a few more pounds before all our affairs are wound up, but something quite inconsiderable. I am as poor as a church mouse, and so is Brenda. Our money was spent on our education. Now it is finished, all used up. We are penniless. Now – now – you know all about us.”

Florence stood up as she spoke and extended her arms wide as though to emphasise her own words.

“We are penniless,” she repeated. “Now you know.”

Mrs Fortescue was absolutely silent for a minute. Then she uttered a violent ejaculation and, turning round on her heel, left the room. She slammed – absolutely slammed the door after her. Florence sat very still after she had gone.

“She would like me to leave at once,” thought the girl. “But Michael – dear Michael: he at least will be true to his word. Oh, what am I to do! I hate beyond everything in the world staying here – staying on with her when she can look at me like that. Is it my fault that I am poor! I think that I am very cruelly treated.”

Tears rushed to her eyes. She stayed for a time in her room, then finished her dressing. She went downstairs to breakfast. To her surprise Mrs Fortescue was not in the room. After a moment’s hesitation, she rang the bell. Bridget appeared.

“What is it, missie?” she asked.

“I want my breakfast, please,” said Florence.

“My missis sent to tell you that there were no fresh eggs in the house, so that perhaps you would do with the cold ham. I don’t see why fresh eggs should not be bought for you, but those were her orders, I’ll make you some new coffee, nice and strong, and bring it in, in a few minutes.”

Florence laughed. Her laughter was almost satirical. In a short time, Bridget came in with the coffee and a bone of ham which had been cut very bare.

“I can’t make out,” said Bridget, “what is the matter with my missis. I never saw anybody in such a raging temper.”

“But where is she?” asked Florence.

“Oh, gone out, my dear – gone out. She has been out nearly an hour.”

“Did she eat any breakfast?” asked Florence.

“That she did – the eggs that were meant for you, too; for you know she never takes eggs in the winter; she considers them too dear. But she ate your eggs this morning, and said that you might do with the ham bone.”

“Thank you,” said Florence.

She carved a few slices from the bone, then looked up at the old servant with a smile.

“It is such a relief,” she said, “not to conceal things any longer. I will tell you, Bridget. I wonder if you are going to be just as horrid to me as Mrs Fortescue.”

Bridget stood stock still staring at the girl.

“The fact is,” said Florence, “Brenda and I haven’t got any money. We’re not heiresses at all. We are just very poor girls who have to earn our own living. We have nothing to live on – nothing at all. I expect if all were known, you have more money at the present moment than I have, Bridget. I shouldn’t be a scrap surprised if you had.”

Bridget stared open-mouthed.

“You poor thing!” she said, after a pause. “You ain’t a bit fit to earn your own living.”

“No; I am not,” said Florence; but here a ghost of a smile crossed her face.

Bridget after a time went out of the room. Florence did not feel at all inclined to eat the dry ham and stale bread, which were all that was left for her breakfast. She had a certain sense of the great injustice of being treated in this manner; for was not Mr Timmins paying Mrs Fortescue just as much for her support as though she and her sister were both living with the good lady?

After a time, she got up and left the dining-room. Things were very dreary. It was so strange of Mrs Fortescue to go out. Mrs Fortescue had always fussed a good deal about the girls, and had made their arrangements for the day her first consideration. Now she did not seem to think Florence of the slightest importance, and had gone away without alluding to her. She had not come back either. Florence felt restless. She wanted to go and see Susie Arbuthnot, but thought it was too early. She left the room, however, prepared to put on her outdoor things. She would have liked it if Michael had called. Now was the opportunity for Michael to show his devotion, to assure her of the great truth of his own words; then if she were as poor as a church mouse, she would still be all the world to him.

But Michael did not come. Florence ran up to her room. She put on her hat and jacket. They were just as becoming as yesterday, and her young face looked just as pretty – prettier, indeed; for sorrow had brought out fresh charms and had added to her loveliness. Her eyes, always bright and capable of varying expressions, were now filled with intense pathos.

She had just run downstairs, and was crossing the hall, when she saw Mrs Fortescue come in. To her relief, she perceived that this good woman was accompanied by Susie Arbuthnot.

“Oh Florence – dear!” said Susie.

She went straight up to the girl, folded her arms round her and kissed her.

“I have a proposal to make to you,” she continued, “and if it is agreeable, we will carry it out at once. I don’t think Mrs Fortescue will object, will you, Mrs Fortescue?”

“Well, really!” said Mrs Fortescue; “I don’t think that my wishes are worth consulting. I am of no importance – no importance whatever. But all I insist upon is that until the twentieth of the month I receive the ten guineas a week which Mr Timmins owes for you and your sister. You are welcome to stay at my house, or to do what Susie Arbuthnot – who is quite extraordinary and unlike other people – proposes. But I will have my ten guineas a week, or I go to law with Mr Timmins. I will at least have that much money at my disposal.”

“What do you want me to do, Susie?” said Florence, with that new-born dignity which suited her so very well, and with that wonderful, new pathos in her eyes which made her look altogether lovely.

“I want you to do this,” said Susie; “to come straight back with me to the Grange. Neither father nor I want ten guineas, nor one penny a week, and you are to stay as long as ever you like. I want you to come now. Why, Flo, it is you I love just for yourself, not because you are an heiress. As a rule, I hate heiresses – not that I have met many.”

“Nor have I,” said Mrs Fortescue, with a snap. “They are mostly creatures of imagination. They don’t exist outside story-books. Well, Florence, say what you will do. Of course you can stay here if you wish; I want you clearly to understand that I don’t turn you out.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Florence; “and I know that you will get your money in full. I’ll see to that. But I should love to go with you, Susie; and – may I go at once?”

“Indeed you may, darling. I have come for you,” said Susie Arbuthnot.

“Who will pack her things?” said Mrs Fortescue. “Bridget has no time to spare; when a woman is as poor as I am and has only one servant, she can’t have that servant’s time being given up doing odds and ends for penniless girls. Penniless girls ought to understand how to manage their own affaire; otherwise, they are no use in the world.”

“Hush!” said Susie, in so stern a voice that Mrs Fortescue turned and looked at her in some amazement. “You will be sorry another time that you spoke like this. Come upstairs with me, Florence; we will soon put your things into their trunks, and then we can drive to the Grange. I will order a fly.”

“I can pay for it, you know, Susie,” said poor Florence. “I have plenty of money, plenty, until the twentieth of January – ”

“And after that, nothing – nothing at all,” said Mrs Fortescue. “Did ever any one before in all the world hear of such improvidence – girls who have had hundreds a year spent on them to be brought down to nothing! Oh, I have been shamefully deceived! But you’ll rue it – both of you. Yes, you will. That sister of yours, Florence, is just as improvident as you are, and has just as little power of making herself useful to any one. This fine woman. Lady Marian Dixie, will soon discover her uselessness. But go upstairs, my dear, do. I shall be very glad to have your room. I cannot afford, however, to give you any of Bridget’s valuable time.”

Florence ran upstairs as if in a dream. Susie accompanied her.

“Don’t fret, Florence,” she said, when they entered the pretty bedroom. “She is a very hardened, money-loving woman, and you have managed to disappoint her; but she will get over this, of course.”

“And you are not disappointed?” said Florence.

“Oh no, darling,” said Susie with a smile. “I never in the very least cared about your money. It was you I loved, and you are not changed.”

Here she took the bright girl’s face between both her hands and kissed her on her lips.

“Oh, Florence!” she said. “Talk of you as penniless – you, with those eyes, that youth, that beauty and that true heart! Florence, darling; you are rich in great possessions!”

“I think I am,” said Florence, joyfully, “now that I have found a friend. Oh yes,” she added, “I am sure I am.”

It took but a short time to pack the different articles of Florence’s wardrobe into the neat trunks which were waiting to receive them. Susie herself went out to fetch a cab, and before lunch time Florence was installed at the Grange. The Colonel was delighted to see her, and received her with the same graceful old-fashioned courtesy he had done on Christmas Day. This was perhaps, if anything, slightly accentuated. He did not once allude to the subject of money, nor did he express any commiseration for Florence’s poverty. On the contrary, he expected her to be in an excellent humour, and took her about the garden showing her his favourite plants, and pointing out different mysterious little plots of ground which would, as he expressed it, “blossom like the rose” when the spring arrived.

“Ah,” he said, “it is a great mystery – a very, very great mystery, that of death and resurrection. All the seeds in the ground down there are apparently dead, and there is nothing as far as we can tell to call them into life again. Frost night after night, snow on the ground, biting cold rains, no growth, no movement – and yet the germ is safe within, folded in each of the little seeds; and when the right moment comes, it will begin to fructify, and there will come out the little tender plants – just the merest little shoots at first – which will grow together day by day; and then there will come the hardy plant, and then the bud, and then the blossom, and then again the seed; and that same must die in order to bring forth fresh life. It is all lovely and all true and like our own life, isn’t it, Florence?”

“Yes,” said Florence; “it does seem so.”

“You are lonely without your sister, my dear.”

“I am rather lonely,” said Florence. But it was not the thought of Brenda which was depressing her. She had got over her separation from her sister for the time being: besides, they could meet, and would meet, at any time. She was expecting Michael Reid and wondering if he would look in at the Arbuthnots’. So far he had not come, nor had his name been alluded to.

While Florence and the old Colonel were pottering about the garden, out came Susie with her red and yet sunshiny face.

“Now,” she said, “you two have talked long enough, and I want Florence. Florence, we are going to do a lot of preserving this afternoon. I mean to make more marmalade than I have ever made before, and it is a tremendous business; but I have managed to get a hundred Seville oranges at quite a moderate price at Johnson’s. We’ll begin our preparations as soon as ever lunch is over. But now it is on the table; so do come in, good folks, both of you, and eat.”

“I should like to help with the marmalade too,” said the Colonel.

Susie laughed.

“Oh no, you won’t,” she said. “You did last year, don’t you remember? and nobody would eat the Colonel’s marmalade. Each jar had to be marked ‘Colonel Arbuthnot’ on account of the thickness of the rinds. You had it all to yourself, and I think you are about sick of it.”

“But I’ll do better this time; I really will, Susie,” said the poor Colonel.

“Oh, it does seem so very silly to cut up that beautiful rind so thick; it isn’t men’s work,” said Susie, “and that’s the truth; but it’s meant for women like Florence and me. If Flo cuts the rinds thick, she will feel the full impetus of my wrath. You go into the library and get your books in order, father. I dare say Flo and I will come in and read to you presently; but between lunch and tea-time we are going to be busy over our marmalade, and we don’t want you hovering round.”

“There, there!” said the Colonel, “there, there! What is the good of an old man who is always in the way?”

“Things are being done for him all the time,” said Susie. “Now, how do you like that curry, sir? Let me tell you that I made it myself.”

“It is delicious, my dear,” said the Colonel. “I could almost fancy myself back in Bengal. It has got the true oriental flavour. Where did you discover that knack of blending the ingredients so that you don’t get one flavour over and above the others? Really – this curry is a chef-d’oeuvre. Try some, won’t you, Florence?”

But Florence declared that she could not eat curry with the true eastern flavour and preferred some cold mutton, which Susie out for her with right good-will.

“I like your food,” she said. “It is so good and wholesome. I hate messy things. Mrs Fortescue was always making things up for us, imagining that we could not eat plain things.”

“You will get very plain things here,” said Susie. “It’s only father who has to be petted and fussed over. But then he is worth it – he is such an old dear,” and she looked at him with her honest eyes beaming with affection.

When the meal had come to an end, Florence and Susie were immediately supplied with two large linen aprons, and the work of making marmalade began. For a time, Florence pretended to enjoy it, then her knife slackened, and Susie shouted to her that her pieces of orange peel were almost if not quite worthy of the Colonel’s own.

“I am not going to have it,” she said. “We can only manage to live comfortably by never wasting anything, and if you can’t cut the oranges better than that, you had better stop.”

“Oh, Susie, I am sorry! I will be good.” Florence made a violent effort to do better, but ended in cutting her finger, and then Susie had to spend a long time in binding up the wound and pitying the sufferer.

“You are not a bit yourself to-day,” she said. “What is the matter with you?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Florence. “I am both happy and unhappy.”

“I shouldn’t have thought,” said Susie gravely, “that you were a bit the sort of girl to care whether you had money or not.”

“I shouldn’t mind in the least,” answered Florence, “only that it seems to make such a wonderful difference with people. Mrs Fortescue has turned out so horribly nasty.”

“Oh no,” said Susie. “She is quite natural; she will be all right in a day or two, and as affectionate to you as ever. She is a little disappointed, that is all. She takes her disappointments badly: some people do.”

“But you, Susie – you and your father – you are so sweet.”

“Well, dear,” said Susie, “I do trust that our sweetness does not depend on the fact that you and Brenda are entitled to so many hundreds a year. I have always been fond of you just for your two selves and for nothing else.”

“There is one thing that makes me a little anxious,” said Florence; “but, of course, it is all right – of course it is.”

“What is it, darling?” asked Susie. “You may as well out with it, for I can see plainly that you are harbouring a very uncomfortable and anxious thought in your heart.”

“Well,” said Florence, “it is this way. I am thinking about Michael. I am wondering if – if he will mind.”

“Do you mean Michael Reid?”

“Yes.”

Susie was silent, but she laid down the sharp knife with which she had been cutting her orange peel and looked full at the girl.

“What do you think yourself, Florence?”

“I think this,” said Florence. “I think that if I doubt him I am about the most unworthy, the most cowardly girl in all God’s world. For when he told me – oh yes, Susie, he did tell me – for when he told me so plainly that he loved me, he said it was for myself, and that if I were as poor as a church mouse, he would love me just, just the same.”

“Then, of course, it is all right,” said Susie. She spoke cheerfully.

“Yes; of course it must be all right,” said Florence; “but I knew at the time that I was poor, although I was not allowed to say a word about it. Mr Timmins had given us such explicit directions, and Brenda and I felt ourselves in quite a false position. So I told him I would not give him his answer for a week. I shall probably know nothing about him for at least a week.”

“Probably not,” said Susie. “And now, let me give you a word of advice. I have known Michael since he was a boy. He is a good fellow, as young men go; but he has plenty of faults – ”

“Oh no – I am sure he hasn’t.”

“He has,” said Susie. “Every one has. You have, and I have, and even daddy has – particularly when it comes to cutting the orange peel. But now, I will tell you what I feel. If Michael finds when he is put to the test that he doesn’t care for you, although you are as poor as a church mouse, you are very well rid of him; and if he does care for you, he is worth waiting for.”

“Yes, yes,” said Florence; “that is what I think. And oh, Susie, I mean to work so hard just to help to earn money for him.”

“You poor little thing!” said Susie. “I wonder how you will earn money.”

“I don’t know; but there must be lots of ways. A girl can’t be given hands, and arms, and legs, and a brain, and a head all for nothing.”

“A great many are, it seems to me,” said Susie, with a sigh. “But there – we have cut enough orange peel for to-day. We must go and get tea for daddy. Come with me into the kitchen, and I will complete your education by teaching you how to make a proper tea-cake.”