“Of fever!—and who took care of him? he would want nursing—and so far from home! Oh, Cynthia!”

“Oh, I don’t fancy he had any nursing, poor fellow! One doesn’t expect nursing, and hospitals, and doctors in Abyssinia; but he had plenty of quinine with him, and I suppose that is the best specific. At any rate he says he is quite well now!”

Molly sat silent for a minute or two.

“What is the date of the letter, Cynthia?”

“I didn’t look. December the—December the 10th.”

“That’s nearly two months ago,” said Molly.

“Yes; but I determined I wouldn’t worry myself with useless anxiety, when he went away. If anything did—go wrong, you know,” said Cynthia, using a euphemism for death as most people do (it is an ugly word to speak plain out in the midst of life), “it would be all over before I even heard of his illness, and I could be of no use to him—could I, Molly?”

“No. I daresay it is all very true; only I should think the Squire could not take it so easily.”

“I always write him a little note, when I hear from Roger; but I don’t think I’ll name this touch of fever—shall I, Molly?”

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “People say one ought; but I almost wish I hadn’t heard it. Please, does he say anything else that I may hear?”

“Oh, lovers’ letters are so silly, and I think this is sillier than usual,” said Cynthia, looking over her letter again. “Here’s a piece you may read, from that line to that,” indicating two places. “I haven’t read it myself, for it looked dullish—all about Aristotle and Pliny—and I want to get this bonnet-cap made-up, before we go out to pay our calls.”

Molly took the letter, the thought crossing her mind that he had touched it, had had his hands upon it, in those far distant desert lands, where he might be lost to sight and to any human knowledge of his fate; even now her pretty brown fingers almost caressed the flimsy paper with their delicacy of touch, as she read. She saw references made to books which, with a little trouble, would be accessible to her here in Hollingford. Perhaps the details and the references would make the letter dull and dry to some people, but not to her, thanks to his former teaching and the interest he had excited in her for his pursuits. But, as he said in apology, what had he to write about in that savage land, but his love, and his researches, and travels? There was no society, no gaiety, no new books to write about, no gossip in Abyssinian wilds.

Molly was not in strong health, and perhaps this made her a little fanciful; but certain it is that her thoughts by day and her dreams by night were haunted by the idea of Roger, lying ill and unattended in those savage lands. From a heart as true as that of the real mother in King Solomon’s judgment, who pleaded, “O my lord! give her the living child, and in no wise slay it,” came Molly’s constant prayer, “Let him live, let him live, even though I may never set eyes upon him again! Have pity upon his father! Grant that he may come home safe, and live happily with her whom he loves so tenderly—so tenderly, O God.” And then she would burst into tears, and drop asleep at last, sobbing.