“You know—— Yes! she told you a great deal—she was very fond of you. And God knows how I loved her. If I had not been forbidden to come home, I should have told her all. Does my father know of my coming now?”

“Yes,” said Molly; “I told him papa had sent for you.”

Just at that moment the Squire came in. He had not heard of Osborne’s arrival, and was seeking Molly to ask her to write a letter for him.

Osborne did not stand up, when his father entered. He was too much exhausted, too much oppressed by his feelings, and also too much estranged by his father’s angry, suspicious letters. If he had come forward with any manifestation of feeling at this moment, everything might have been different. But he waited for his father to see him, before he uttered a word. All that the Squire said, when his eye fell upon him at last, was—

“You here, sir!”

And, breaking off in the directions he was giving to Molly, he abruptly left the room. All the time, his heart was yearning after his first-born; but mutual pride kept them asunder. Yet he went straight to the butler, and asked of him when Mr. Osborne had arrived, and how he had come, and if he had had any refreshment—dinner or what—since his arrival?

“For I think I forget everything now!” said the poor Squire, putting his hand up to his head. “For the life of me, I can’t remember whether we’ve had dinner or not; these long nights, and all this sorrow and watching, quite bewilder me.”

“Perhaps, sir, you will take some dinner with Mr. Osborne? Mrs. Morgan is sending up his directly. You hardly sate down at dinner-time, sir; you thought my mistress wanted something.”

“Ay! I remember now. No! I won’t have any more. Give Mr. Osborne what wine he chooses. Perhaps he can eat and drink!” So the Squire went away upstairs, with bitterness as well as sorrow in his heart.

When lights were brought, Molly was struck with the change in Osborne. He looked haggard and worn; perhaps with travelling and anxiety. Not quite such a dainty gentleman either, as Molly had thought him, when she had last seen him calling on her stepmother, two months before. But she liked him better now. The tone of his remarks pleased her more. He was simpler, and less ashamed of showing his feelings. He asked after Roger in a warm, longing kind of way. Roger was out: he had ridden to Ashcombe to transact some business for the Squire. Osborne evidently wished for his return; and hung about restlessly in the drawing-room, after he had dined.

“You’re sure I mayn’t see her to-night?” he asked Molly, for the third or fourth time.

“No, indeed. I will go up again, if you like it. But Mrs. Jones, the nurse Dr. Nicholls sent, is a very decided person. I went up, while you were at dinner; and Mrs. Hamley had just taken her drops, and was on no account to be disturbed by seeing any one, much less by any excitement.”

Osborne kept walking up and down the long drawing-room, half talking to himself, half to Molly.

“I wish Roger would come! He seems to be the only one to give me a welcome. Does my father always live upstairs in my mother’s rooms, Miss Gibson?”

“He has done since her last attack. I believe he reproaches himself for not having been enough alarmed before.”