“I hope you did not want to see him professionally?” said Molly, wondering if she was wise in alluding to his health, yet urged to it by her real anxiety.

“Yes, I did. I suppose I may help myself to a biscuit and a glass of wine? No, don’t ring for more. I could not eat it if it was here. But I just want a mouthful; this is quite enough, thank you. When will your father be back?”

“He was summoned up to London. Lady Cumnor is worse. I fancy there is some operation going on; but I don’t know. He will be back to-morrow night.”

“Very well. Then I must wait. Perhaps I shall be better by that time. I think it’s half fancy; but I should like your father to tell me so. He will laugh at me, I dare say; but I don’t think I shall mind that. He always is severe on fanciful patients, isn’t he, Molly?”

Molly thought that, if he saw Osborne’s looks just then, he would hardly think him fanciful, or be inclined to be severe. But she only said—“Papa enjoys a joke at everything, you know. It is a relief after all the sorrow he sees.”

“Very true. There is a great deal of sorrow in the world. I don’t think it’s a very happy place after all. So Cynthia is gone to London?” he added, after a pause “I think I should like to have seen her again. Poor old Roger! He loves her very dearly, Molly,” he said. Molly hardly knew how to answer him in all this; she was so struck by the change in both voice and manner.

“Mamma has gone to the Towers,” she began at length. “Lady Cumnor wanted several things that mamma only can find. She will be sorry to miss you. We were speaking of you only yesterday, and she said how long it was since we had seen you.”

“I think I’ve grown careless; I’ve often felt so weary and ill that it was all I could do to keep up a brave face before my father.”

“Why did you not come and see papa?” said Molly; “or write to him?”

“I cannot tell. I drifted on, sometimes better, and sometimes worse, till to-day I mustered up pluck, and came to hear what your father has got to tell me; and for no use it seems.”

“I am very sorry. But it is only for two days. He shall go and see you, as soon as ever he returns.”

“He must not alarm my father; remember, Molly,” said Osborne, lifting himself by the arms of his chair into an upright position, and speaking eagerly for the moment. “I wish to God Roger was at home!” said he, falling back into the old posture.

“I can’t help understanding you,” said Molly. “You think yourself ill; but isn’t it that you are tired just now?” She was not sure if she ought to have understood what was passing in his mind; but, as she did, she could not help speaking a true reply.

“Well, sometimes I do think I’m very ill; and then, again, I think it’s only the moping life sets me fancying and exaggerating.” He was silent for some time. Then, as if he had taken a sudden resolution, he spoke again. “You see, there are others depending upon me—upon my health. You haven’t forgotten what you heard that day in the library at home? No, I know you haven’t. I have seen the thought of it in your eyes often since then. I didn’t know you at that time. I think I do now.”

“Don’t go on talking so fast,” said Molly. “Rest. No one will interrupt us; I will go on with my sewing; when you want to say anything more, I shall be listening.” For she was alarmed at the strange pallor that had come over his face.