“Don’t shout, dear—ring the bell. What can be the matter?”

“Oh, Jenny!” said Molly, half-way up the stairs to meet her, “who wanted papa?”

Cynthia came to join the group; she too had been looking for traces or tidings of Mr. Gibson.

“What is the matter?” said Mrs. Gibson. “Can nobody speak and answer a question?”

“Osborne Hamley is dead!” said Cynthia gravely.

“Dead! Osborne! Poor fellow! I knew it would be so, though—I was sure of it. But Mr. Gibson can do nothing, if he’s dead. Poor young man! I wonder where Roger is now? He ought to come home.”

Jenny had been blamed for coming into the drawing-room instead of Maria, whose place it was, and so had lost the few wits she had. To Molly’s hurried questions her replies had been entirely unsatisfactory. A man had come to the back door—she could not see who it was—she had not asked his name; he wanted to speak to master—master seemed in a hurry, and only stopped to get his hat.

“He will not be long away,” thought Molly, “or he would have left word where he was going. But oh! the poor father all alone!” And then a thought came into her head, which she acted upon straight. “Go to James, tell him to put the side-saddle I had in November on Nora Creina! Don’t cry, Jenny! There’s no time for that. No one is angry with you. Run!”

So, down into the cluster of collected women Molly came, equipped in her jacket and skirt; quick determination in her eyes; controlled quivering about the corners of her mouth.

“Why, what in the world”—said Mrs. Gibson—“Molly, what are you thinking about?” But Cynthia had understood it at a glance, and was arranging Molly’s hastily assumed dress, as she passed along.

“I am going. I must go. I cannot bear to think of him alone. When papa comes back, he is sure to go to Hamley, and if I am not wanted, I can come back with him.” She heard Mrs. Gibson’s voice following her in remonstrance, but she did not stay for words. She had to wait in the stable-yard, and she wondered how the messenger could bear to eat and drink the food and beer, brought out to him by the servants. Her coming out had evidently interrupted the eager talk—the questions and answers passing sharp to and fro; but she caught the words, “all amongst the tangled grass,” and “the Squire would let none on us touch him; he took him up, as if he was a baby; he had to rest many a time, and once he sate him down on the ground; but still he kept him in his arms; but we thought we should ne’er have gotten him up again—him and the body.”

“The body!”

Molly had never felt that Osborne was really dead, till she heard these words. They rode quick under the shadows of the hedgerow trees; but, when they slackened speed, to go up a brow, or to give their horses breath, Molly heard these two little words again in her ears, and said them over again to herself, in hopes of forcing the sharp truth into her unwilling sense. But, when they came in sight of the square stillness of the house, shining in the moonlight— the moon had risen by this time—Molly caught at her breath, and for an instant she thought she never could go in, and face the presence in that dwelling. One yellow light burnt steadily, spotting the silver shining with its earthly coarseness. The man pointed it out; it was almost the first word he had spoken since they had left Hollingford.

“It’s the old nursery. They carried him there. The Squire broke down at the stair-foot, and they took him to the readiest place. I’ll be bound for it, the Squire is there hisself, and old Robin too. They fetched him, as a knowledgable man among dumb beasts, till th’ regular doctor came.”

Molly dropped down from her seat, before the man could dismount to help her. She gathered up her skirts, and did not stay again to think of what was before her. She ran along the once familiar turns,