’I beg your pardon.  I hardly know what I am saying.  Did I accuse Osborne?  Oh, my lad, my lad—­thou might have trusted thy old dad!  He used to call me his “old dad” when he was a little chap not bigger than this,’ indicating a certain height with his hand.  ’I never meant to say he was not—­not what one would wish to think him now—­his soul with God, as you say very justly—­for I am sure it is there—­’

‘Well! but, squire,’ said Mr. Gibson, trying to check the other’s rambling, ‘to return to his wife—­’

‘And the child,’ whispered Molly to her father.  Low as the whisper was, it struck on the squire’s ear.

‘What?’ said he, turning round to her suddenly, ’—­child!  You never named that?  Is there a child?  Husband and father, and I never knew!  God bless Osborne’s child!  I say, God bless it!’ He stood up reverently, and the other two instinctively rose.  He closed his hands as if in momentary prayer.  Then exhausted he sate down again, and put out his hand to Molly.

’You’re a good girl.  Thank you.  Tell me what I ought to do, and I’ll do it.’  This to Mr. Gibson.

‘I am almost as much puzzled as you are, squire,’ replied he.  ’I fully believe the whole story; but I think there must be some written confirmation of it, which perhaps ought to be found at once, before we act.  Most probably this is to be discovered among Osborne’s papers.  Will you look over them at once?  Molly shall return with me, and find the address that Osborne gave her, while you are busy—­’

‘She’ll come back again?’ said the squire eagerly.  ’You—­she won’t leave me to myself?’

’No!  She shall come back this evening.  I’ll manage to send her somehow.  But she has no clothes but the habit she came in, and I want my horse that she rode away upon.’

‘Take the carriage,’ said the squire.  ’Take anything.  I’ll give orders.  You’ll come back again, too?’

’No!  I’m afraid not, to-day.  I’ll come to-morrow, early.  Molly shall return this evening, whenever it suits you to send for her.’

’This afternoon; the carriage shall be at your house at three.  I dare not look at Osborne’s—­at the papers without one of you with me; and yet I shall never rest till I know more.’

’I will send the desk in by Robinson before I leave.  And—­can you give me some lunch before I go?’

Little by little he led the squire to eat a morsel or so of food; and so, strengthening him physically, and encouraging him mentally, Mr. Gibson hoped that he would begin his researches during Molly’s absence.

There was something touching in the squire’s wistful looks after Molly as she moved about.  A stranger might have imagined her to be his daughter instead of Mr. Gibson’s.  The meek, broken-down, considerate ways of the bereaved father never showed themselves more strongly than when he called them back to his chair, out of which he seemed too languid to rise, and said, as if by an after-thought,—­’Give my love to Miss Kirkpatrick; tell her I look upon her as quite one of the family.  I shall be glad to see her after—­after the funeral.  I don’t think I can before.’