‘It’s all true,’ he began; ’she’s his wife, and he’s her husband—­was her husband—­that’s the word for it—­was!  Poor lad! poor lad! it’s cost him a deal.  Pray God, it was not my fault.  Read this, my dear.  It’s a certificate.  It’s all regular—­Osborne Hamley to Marie-Aimee Scherer,—­ parish-church and all, and witnessed.  Oh, dear!’ He sate down in the nearest chair and groaned.  Molly took a seat by him, and read the legal paper, the perusal of which was not needed to convince her of the fact of the marriage.  She held it in her hand after she had finished reading it, waiting for the squire’s next coherent words; for he kept talking to himself in broken sentences.  ‘Ay, ay! that comes o’ temper, and crabbedness.  She was the only one as could—­and I’ve been worse since she was gone.  Worse! worse! and see what it has come to.  He was afraid of me—­ay—­afraid.  That’s the truth of it—­afraid.  And it made him keep all to himself, and care killed him.  They may call it heart-disease—­O my lad, my lad, I know better now; but it’s too late—­ that’s the sting of it—­too late, too late!’ He covered his face, and moved himself backwards and forwards till Molly could bear it no longer.

‘There are some letters,’ said she:  ‘may I read any of them?’ At another time she would not have asked; but she was driven to it now by her impatience of the speechless grief of the old man.

’Ay, read ’em, read ’em,’ said he.  ’Maybe you can.  I can only pick out a word here and there.  I put ’em there for you to look at; and tell me what is in ’em.’

Molly’s knowledge of written French of the present day was not so great as her knowledge of the French of the Memoires de Sully, and neither the spelling nor the writing of the letters was of the best; but she managed to translate into good enough colloquial English some innocent sentences of love, and submission to Osborne’s will—­as if his judgment was infallible,—­and faith in his purposes;—­little sentences in ‘little language’ that went home to the squire’s heart.  Perhaps if Molly had read French more easily she might not have translated them into such touching, homely, broken words.  Here and there, there were expressions in English; these the hungry-hearted squire had read while waiting for Molly’s return.  Every time she stopped, he said, ‘Go on.’  He kept his face shaded, and only repeated those two words at every pause.  She got up to find some more of Aimee’s letters.  In examining the papers, she came upon one in particular.  ’Have you seen this, sir?  This certificate of baptism’ (reading aloud) ’of Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley, born June 21, 183-, child of Osborne Hamley and Marie-Aimee his wife—­’