husband, in a foreign land, and he at a distance from her, dead and buried without her ever having had the chance of printing his dear features on her memory by one last long lingering look. With her thoughts full of the unknown Aimée, Molly talked much about her that day to the Squire. He would listen for ever to any conjecture, however wild, about the grandchild, but perpetually winced away from all discourse about “the Frenchwoman,” as he called her; not unkindly, but to his mind she was simply the Frenchwoman —chattering, dark-eyed, demonstrative, and possibly even rouged. He would treat her with respect as his son’s widow, and would try even not to think upon the female inveiglement in which he believed. He would make her an allowance to the extent of his duty: but he hoped and trusted he might never be called upon to see her. His solicitor, Gibson, anybody and everybody, should be called upon to form a phalanx of defence against that danger.

And all this time a little young grey-eyed woman was making her way—not towards him, but towards the dead son, whom as yet she believed to be her living husband. She knew she was acting in defiance of his expressed wish; but he had never dismayed her with any expression of his own fears about his health; and she, bright with life, had never contemplated death coming to fetch away one so beloved. He was ill—very ill, the letter from the strange girl said that; but Aimée had nursed her parents, and knew what illness was. The French doctor had praised her skill and neat-handedness as a nurse; and, even if she had been the clumsiest of women, was he not her husband—her all? And was she not his wife, whose place was by his pillow? So, without even as much reasoning as has been here given, Aimée made her preparations, swallowing down the tears that would overflow her eyes, and drop into the little trunk she was packing so neatly. And by her side, on the ground, sate the child, now nearly two years old; and for him Aimée had always a smile and a cheerful word. Her servant loved her and trusted her; and the woman was of an age to have had experience of humankind. Aimée had told her that her husband was ill, and the servant had known enough of the household history to be aware that, as yet, Aimée was not his acknowledged wife. But she sympathised with the prompt decision of her mistress to go to him directly, wherever he was. Caution comes from education of one kind or another, and Aimée was not dismayed by warnings; only the woman pleaded hard for the child to be left. “He was such company,” she said; “and he would so tire his mother in her journeyings; and maybe his father would be too ill to see him.” To which Aimée replied, “Good company for you, but better for me. A woman is never tired with carrying her own child” (which was not true; but there was sufficient truth in it to make it believed by both mistress and servant), “and, if Monsieur could care for anything, he would rejoice to hear the babble of his little son.” So Aimée caught the evening coach to London at the nearest cross-road, Martha standing by as chaperon and friend to see her off, and handing her in the large lusty child, already crowing with delight at the sight of the horses. There was a “lingerie” shop, kept by a Frenchwoman, whose acquaintance Aimée had made in the days when she was a London nursemaid; and thither she betook herself, rather than to an hotel, to spend the few night hours that intervened before the Birmingham coach started at early morning. She slept or watched on a sofa in the parlour, for spare-bed there was none; but Madame Pauline came in betimes with a good cup of coffee for the mother, and of “soupe blanche” for the boy; and they went off again into the wide world, only thinking of, only seeking the “him,” who was everything human to both. Aimée remembered the sound of the name of the village, where Osborne had often told her that he alighted from the coach to walk home; and, though she could never have spelt the strange, uncouth word, yet she spoke it with pretty slow distinctness to the guard, asking him in her broken English when they should arrive there? Not till four o’clock. Alas! and what might happen before then! Once with him, she would have no fear; she was sure that she could bring him round; but what might not happen, before he was in her tender care? She was a very capable person in many ways, though so childish and innocent in others. She made up her mind to the course she should take, when the coach set her down at Feversham. She asked for a man to carry her trunk, and show her the way to Hamley Hall.

“Hamley Hall!” said the innkeeper. “Eh! there’s a deal o’ trouble there just now.”

“I know, I know,” said she, hastening off after the wheelbarrow in which her trunk was going, and breathlessly struggling to keep up with it, her heavy child asleep in her arms. Her pulses beat all over her body; she could hardly see out of her eyes. To her, a foreigner, the drawn blinds of the house, when she came in sight of it, had no significance; she hurried, stumbled on.