desirableness of telling the few further particulars that she knew. The Squire’s mouth was dry and stiff, but he tried to say, “Tell me all—everything.” And Molly understood the half-formed words.

“He said his wife was a good woman, and that he loved her dearly; but she was a French Roman Catholic, and a”— another glance at her father—“she had been a servant once. That was all; except that I have her address at home. He wrote it down and gave it me.”

“Well! well!” moaned the Squire. “It’s all over now. All over. All past and gone. We’ll not blame him—no; but I wish he’d ha’ told me; he and I to live together with such a secret in one of us! It’s no wonder to me now— nothing can be a wonder again, for one never can tell what’s in a man’s heart. Married so long! and we sitting together at meals—and living together! Why, I told him everything! Too much, may be; for I showed him all my passions and ill-tempers. Married so long! Oh, Osborne, Osborne, you should have told me!”

“Yes, he should!” said Mr. Gibson. “But I dare say he knew how much you would dislike such a choice as he had made. But he should have told you!”

“You know nothing about it, sir,” said the Squire sharply. “You don’t know the terms we were on. Not hearty or confidential. I was cross to him many a time; angry with him for being dull, poor lad—and he with all this weight on his mind. I won’t have people interfering and judging between me and my sons. And Roger too! He could know it all, and keep it from me!”

“Osborne evidently had bound him down to secrecy, just as he bound me,” said Molly; “Roger could not help himself.”

“Osborne was such a fellow for persuading people, and winning them over,” said the Squire dreamily. “I remember—but what’s the use of remembering? It’s all over, and Osborne’s dead without opening his heart to me. I could have been tender to him, I could. But he’ll never know it now!”

“But we can guess what wish he had strongest in his mind at the last, from what we do know of his life,” said Mr. Gibson.

“What, sir?” said the Squire, with sharp suspicion of what was coming.

“His wife must have been his last thought, must she not?”

“How do I know she was his wife? Do you think he’d go and marry a French baggage of a servant? It may be all a tale trumped up.”

“Stop, Squire! I don’t care to defend my daughter’s truth or accuracy. But, with the dead man’s body lying upstairs—his soul with God—think twice before you say more hasty words, impugning his character; if she was not his wife, what was she?”

“I beg your pardon. I hardly know what I’m saying. Did I accuse Osborne? Oh, my lad, my lad—thou might have trusted thy old dad! He used to call me his ‘old dad’, when he was a little chap not bigger than this,” indicating a certain height with his hand. “I never meant to say he was not—not what one would wish to think him now—his soul with God, as you say very justly—for I’m sure it is there”—

“Well, but, Squire,” said Mr. Gibson, trying to check the other’s rambling, “to return to his wife”——

“And the child,” whispered Molly to her father. Low as the whisper was, it struck on the Squire’s ear.

“What?” said he, turning round to her suddenly, “—child? You never named that? Is there a child? Husband and father, and I never knew! God bless Osborne’s child! I say, God bless it!” He stood up reverently, and the other two instinctively rose. He closed his hands, as if in momentary prayer. Then, exhausted, he sate down again, and put out his hand to Molly.