“I don’t know. I don’t know what Frenchwomen are like. People say Cynthia is French.”

“And she didn’t look like a servant? We won’t speak of Cynthia, since she’s served my Roger so. Why, I began to think, as soon as I could think after that, how I would make Roger and her happy, and have them married at once; and then came that letter! I never wanted her for a daughter-in-law, not I. But he did, it seems; and he wasn’t one for wanting many things for himself. But it’s all over now; only we won’t talk of her; and maybe, as you say, she was more French than English. This poor thing looks like a gentlewoman, I think. I hope she’s got friends who’ll take care of her,—she can’t be above twenty. I thought she must be older than my poor lad!”

“She’s a gentle, pretty creature,” said Molly. “But— but I sometimes think it has killed her; she lies like one dead.” And Molly could not keep from crying softly at the thought.

“Nay, nay!” said the Squire. “It’s not so easy to break one’s heart. Sometimes I’ve wished it were. But one has to go on living—‘all the appointed days,’ as is said in the Bible. But we’ll do our best for her. We’ll not think of letting her go away, till she’s fit to travel.”

Molly wondered in her heart about this going away, on which the Squire seemed fully resolved. She was sure that he intended to keep the child; perhaps he had a legal right to do so—but would the mother ever part from it? Her father, however, would solve the difficulty—her father, whom she always looked to as so clear-seeing and experienced. She watched and waited for his coming. The February evening drew on; the child lay asleep in the Squire’s arms, till his grandfather grew tired and laid him down on the sofa—the large square-cornered yellow sofa upon which Mrs. Hamley used to sit, supported by pillows, in a half-reclining position. Since her time, it had been placed against the wall, and had served merely as a piece of furniture to fill up the room. But once again a human figure was lying upon it: a little human creature, like a cherub in some old Italian picture. The Squire remembered his wife, as he put the child down. He thought of her as he said to Molly—

“How pleased she would have been!” But Molly thought of the poor young widow upstairs. Aimée was her “she” at the first moment. Presently—but it seemed a long, long time first—she heard the quick, prompt sounds which told of her father’s arrival. In he came—to the room as yet only lighted by the fitful blaze of the fire.