Osborne was extremely polite, and even expressed his gratitude to her for her attentions to his mother in a very pleasant manner; but he appeared to be unwilling to show her any of the deeper feelings of his heart, and almost ashamed of his exhibition of emotion the night before.  He spoke to her as any agreeable young man speaks to any pleasant young lady; but Molly almost resented this.  It was only the squire who seemed to make her of any account.  He gave her letters to write, small bills to reckon up; and she could have kissed his hands for thankfulness.

The last afternoon of her stay at the Hall came.  Roger had gone out on the squire’s business.  Molly went into the garden, thinking over the last summer, when Mrs. Hamley’s sofa used to be placed under the old cedar-tree on the lawn, and when the warm air seemed to be scented with roses and sweetbrier.  Now, the trees were leafless,—­there was no sweet odour in the keen frosty air; and looking up at the house, there were the white sheets of blinds, shutting out the pale winter sky from the invalid’s room.  Then she thought of the day her father had brought her the news of his second marriage:  the thicket was tangled with dead weeds and rime and hoarfrost; and the beautiful fine articulation of branches and boughs and delicate twigs were all intertwined in leafless distinctness against the sky.  Could she ever be so passionately unhappy again?  Was it goodness, or was it numbness, that made her feel as though life was too short to be troubled much about anything? death seemed the only reality.  She had neither energy nor heart to walk far or briskly; and turned back towards the house.  The afternoon sun was shining brightly on the windows; and, stirred up to unusual activity by some unknown cause, the housemaids had opened the shutters and windows of the generally unused library.  The middle window was also a door; the white-painted wood went half-way up.  Molly turned along the little flag-paved path that led past the library windows to the gate in the white railings at the front of the house, and went in at the opened doors.  She had had leave given to choose out any books she wished to read, and to take them home with her; and it was just the sort of half-dawdling employment suited to her taste this afternoon.  She mounted on the ladder to get to a particular shelf high up in dark corner of the room; and finding there some volume that looked interesting, she sate down on the step to read part of it.  There she sate, in her bonnet and cloak, when Osborne suddenly came in.  He did not see her at first; indeed, he seemed in such a hurry that he probably might not have noticed her at all, if she had not spoken.

’Am I in your way?  I only came here for a minute to look for some books.’  She came down the steps as she spoke, still holding the book in her hand.

’Not at all.  It is I who am disturbing you.  I must just write a letter for the post, and then I shall be gone.  Is not this open door too cold for you?’