’My dear child, she’s getting past wanting any one!  The keenness of earthly feelings is deadened.’

’Papa, that is worst of all.  I cannot bear it.  I won’t believe it.  She may not ask for me again, and may quite forget me; but I’m sure, to the very last, if the medicines don’t stupefy her, she will look round for the squire and her children.  For poor Osborne most of all; because he’s in sorrow.’

Mr. Gibson shook his head, but said nothing in reply.  In a minute or two he asked,—­

’I don’t like to take you away while you even fancy you can be of use or comfort to one who has been so kind to you.  But, if she hasn’t wanted you before Friday, will you be convinced, will you come home willingly?’

’If I go then, I may see her once again, even if she hasn’t asked for me?’ inquired Molly.

’Yes, of course.  You must make no noise, no step; but you may go in and see her.  I must tell you, I’m almost certain she won’t ask for you.’

’But she may, papa.  I will go home on Friday, if she has not.  I think she will.’

So Molly hung about the house, trying to do all she could out of the sick-room, for the comfort of those in it.  They only came out for meals, or for necessary business, and found little time for talking to her, so her life was solitary enough, waiting for the call that never came.  The evening of the day on which she had had the above conversation with Roger, Osborne arrived.  He came straight into the drawing-room, where Molly was seated on the rug, reading by firelight, as she did not like to ring for candies merely for her own use.  Osborne came in, with a kind of hurry, which almost made him appear as if he would trip himself up, and fall down.  Molly rose.  He had not noticed her before; now he came forwards, and took hold of both her hands, leading her into the full flickering light, and straining his eyes to look into her face.

’How is she?  You will tell me—­you must know the truth!  I’ve travelled day and night since I got your father’s letter.’

Before she could frame her answer, he had sate down in the nearest chair, covering his eyes with his hand.

‘She’s very ill,’ said Molly.  ’That you know; but I don’t think she suffers much pain.  She has wanted you sadly.’

He groaned aloud.  ‘My father forbade me to come.’

‘I know!’ said Molly, anxious to prevent his self-reproach.  ’Your brother was away, too.  I think no one knew how ill she was—­she had been an invalid for so long.’

’You know—­Yes! she told you a great deal—­she was very fond of you.  And God knows how I loved her.  If I had not been forbidden to come home, I should have told her all.  Does my father know of my coming now?’

‘Yes,’ said Molly; ‘I told him papa had sent for you.’

Just at that moment the squire came in.  He had not heard of Osborne’s arrival, and was seeking Molly to ask her to write a letter for him.