“I’m brought very low, sir. I suppose it’s God’s doing; but it comes hard upon me. He was my firstborn child.” He said this almost as if speaking to a stranger, and informing him of facts of which he was ignorant.

“Here’s Molly,” said Mr. Gibson, choking a little himself, and pushing her forwards.

“I beg your pardon; I did not see you at first. My mind is a good deal occupied just now.” He sate heavily down, and then seemed almost to forget they were there. Molly wondered what was to come next. Suddenly her father spoke—

“Where’s Roger?” said he. “Is he not likely to be soon at the Cape?” He got up and looked at the directions of one or two unopened letters brought by that morning’s post; among them was one in Cynthia’s hand writing. Both Molly and he saw it at the same time. How long it was since yesterday! But the Squire took no notice of their proceedings or their looks.

“You will be glad to have Roger at home as soon as may be, I think, sir. Some months must elapse first; but I’m sure he will return as speedily as possible.”

The Squire said something in a very low voice. Both father and daughter strained their ears to hear what it was. They both believed it to be, “Roger isn’t Osborne!” And Mr. Gibson spoke on that belief. He spoke more quietly than Molly had ever heard him do before.

“No! we know that. I wish that anything that Roger could do, or that I could do, or that any one could do, would comfort you; but it is past human comfort.”

“I do try to say, God’s will be done, sir,” said the Squire, looking up at Mr. Gibson for the first time, and speaking with more life in his voice; “but it’s harder to be resigned than happy people think.” They were all silent for a while. The Squire himself was the first to speak again—“He was my first child, sir; my eldest son. And of late years we weren’t”—his voice broke down, but he controlled himself —“we weren’t quite as good friends as could be wished; and I’m not sure—not sure that he knew how I loved him.” And now he cried aloud, with an exceeding bitter cry.

“Better so!” whispered Mr. Gibson to Molly. “When he’s a little calmer, don’t be afraid; tell him all you know, exactly as it happened.”

Molly began. Her voice sounded high and unnatural to herself, as if some one else was speaking; but she made her words clear. The Squire did not attempt to listen, at first, at any rate.

“One day when I was here, at the time of Mrs. Hamley’s last illness” (the Squire here checked his convulsive breathing), “I was in the library, and Osborne came in. He said he had only come in for a book, and that I was not to mind him; so I went on reading. Presently, Roger came along the flagged garden-path just outside the window (which was open). He did not see me in the corner where I was sitting, and said to Osborne, ‘Here’s a letter from your wife!’ ”

Now the Squire was all attention; for the first time his tear-swollen eyes met the eyes of another, and he looked at Molly with searching anxiety, as he repeated, “His wife! Osborne married!” Molly went on—

“Osborne was angry with Roger for speaking out before me, and they made me promise never to mention it to any one, or to allude to it to either of them again. I never named it to papa till last night.”

“Go on,” said Mr. Gibson. “Tell the Squire about Osborne’s call—what you told me!” Still the Squire hung on her lips, listening with open mouth and eyes.

“Some months ago Osborne called. He was not well, and wanted to see papa. Papa was away, and I was alone. I don’t exactly remember how it came about, but he spoke to me of his wife for the first and only time since the affair in the library.” She looked at her father, as if questioning him as to the