“Back-door or front, missus?” asked the boots from the inn.

“The most nearest,” said she. And the front-door was “the most nearest.” Molly was sitting with the Squire in the darkened drawing-room, reading out her translations of Aimée’s letters to her husband. The Squire was never weary of hearing them; the very sound of Molly’s voice soothed and comforted him, it was so sweet and low. And he pulled her up, much as a child does, if on a second reading of the same letter she substituted one word for another. The house was very still this afternoon—still, as it had been now for several days; every servant in it, however needlessly, moving about on tiptoe, speaking below the breath, and shutting doors as softly as might be. The nearest noise or stir of active life was that of the rooks in the trees, who were beginning their spring-chatter of business. Suddenly, through this quiet, there came a ring at the front-door bell that sounded, and went on sounding, through the house, pulled by an ignorant, vigorous hand. Molly stopped reading; she and the Squire looked at each other in surprised dismay. Perhaps a thought of Roger’s sudden (and impossible) return was in the mind of each; but neither spoke. They heard Robinson hurrying to answer the unwonted summons. They listened; but they heard no one. There was little more to hear. When the old servant opened the door, a lady with a child in her arms stood there. She gasped out her ready-prepared English sentence.

“Can I see Mr. Osborne Hamley? He is ill, I know; but I am his wife.”

Robinson had been aware that there was some mystery, long-suspected by the servants, and come to light at last to the master,—he had guessed that there was a young woman in the case; but, when she stood there before him, asking for her dead husband as if he were living, any presence of mind Robinson might have had forsook him; he could not tell her the truth—he could only leave the door open, and say to her, “Wait awhile, I’ll come back,” and betake himself to the drawing-room where Molly was, he knew. He went up to her in a flutter and a hurry, and whispered something to her which turned her white with dismay.

“What is it? What is it?” said the Squire, trembling with excitement. “Don’t keep it from me! I can bear it. Roger”——

They both thought he was going to faint; he had risen up and came close to Molly; suspense would be worse than anything.

“Mrs. Osborne Hamley is here,” said Molly. “I wrote to tell her her husband was very ill, and she has come.”

“She does not know what has happened, seemingly,” said Robinson.

“I can’t see her—I can’t see her,” said the Squire, shrinking away into a corner. “You will go, Molly, won’t you? You’ll go?”

Molly stood for a moment or two, irresolute. She, too, shrank from the interview. Robinson put in his word: “She looks but a weakly thing, and has carried a big baby, choose how far, I didn’t stop to ask.”

At this instant the door softly opened, and right into the midst of them came the little figure in grey, looking ready to fall with the weight of her child.

“You are Molly,” said she, not seeing the Squire at once. “The lady who wrote the letter; he spoke of you sometimes. You will let me go to him.”

Molly did not answer, except that at such moments the eyes speak solemnly and comprehensively. Aimée read their meaning. All she said was—“He is not—oh, my husband —my husband!” Her arms relaxed, her figure swayed, the child screamed and held out his arms for help. That help was given him by his grandfather, just before Aimée fell senseless on the floor.