“And go into lodgings at Jennings’ farm; not four hundred yards from the Park-field gate,” continued Mr. Gibson. “The Squire and his daughter-in-law have got to be much better friends over the little fellow’s sick-bed; and I think he sees now how impossible it would be for the mother to leave her child, and go and be happy in France, which has been the notion running in his head all this time. To buy her off, in fact. But that one night, when I was very uncertain whether I could bring him through, they took to crying together, and condoling with each other; and it was just like tearing down a curtain that had been between them; they have been rather friends than otherwise ever since. Still, Roger”—(Molly’s cheeks grew warm and her eyes soft and bright; it was such a pleasure to hear his name)—“and I both agree that his mother knows much better how to manage the boy than his grandfather does. I suppose that was the one good thing she got from that hard-hearted mistress of hers. She certainly has been well trained in the management of children. And it makes her impatient, and annoyed, and unhappy, when she sees the Squire giving the child nuts and ale, and all sorts of silly indulgences, and spoiling him in every possible way. Yet she’s a coward, and doesn’t speak out her mind. Now, by being in lodgings, and having her own servants—nice pretty rooms they are, too; we went to see them, and Mrs. Jennings promises to attend well to Mrs. Osborne Hamley, and is very much honoured, and all that sort of thing—not ten minutes’ walk from the Hall, too; so that she and the little chap may easily go backwards and forwards as often as they like, and yet she can keep the control over the child’s discipline and diet. In short, I think I’ve done a good day’s work,” he continued, stretching himself a little; and then, with a shake, rousing himself, and making ready to go out again, to see a patient who had sent for him in his absence.

“A good day’s work!” he repeated to himself as he ran downstairs. “I don’t know when I have been so happy!” For he had not told Molly all that had passed between him and Roger. Roger had begun a fresh subject of conversation, just as Mr. Gibson was hastening away from the Hall, after completing the new arrangement for Aimée and her child.

“You know that I set off next Tuesday, Mr. Gibson, don’t you?” said Roger, a little abruptly.

“Of course. I hope you’ll be as successful in all your scientific objects as you were the last time, and have no sorrows awaiting you when you come back.”

“Thank you. Yes. I hope so. You don’t think there’s any danger of infection now, do you?”

“No! If the disease were to spread through the household, I think we should have had some signs of it before now. One is never sure, remember, with scarlet fever.”

Roger was silent for a minute or two. “Should you be afraid,” he said at length, “of seeing me at your house?”

“Thank you; but I think I would rather decline the pleasure of your society there at present. It’s only three weeks or a month since the child began. Besides, I shall be over here again before you go. I’m always on my guard against symptoms of dropsy. I have known it supervene.”

“Then I shall not see Molly again!” said Roger, in a tone and with a look of great disappointment.

Mr. Gibson turned his keen, observant eyes upon the young man, and looked at him in as penetrating a manner as if he had been beginning with an unknown illness. Then the doctor and the father compressed his lips and gave vent to a long intelligent whistle. “Whew!” said he.

Roger’s bronzed cheeks took a deeper shade.

“You will take a message to her from me, won’t you? A message of farewell!” he pleaded.

“Not I. I’m not going to be a message-carrier between any young man and young woman. I’ll tell my womenkind I forbade you to come near the house, and that you’re sorry to go away without bidding good-bye. That’s all I shall say.”