‘Give it me,’ said the squire, his voice breaking now, and stretching forth his eager hand. ’"Roger,” that’s me, “Stephen,” that’s my poor old father:  he died when he was not so old as I am; but I’ve always thought on him as very old.  He was main and fond of Osborne, when he was quite a little one.  It’s good of the lad to have thought on my father Stephen.  Ay! that was his name.  And Osborne—­Osborne Hamley!  One Osborne Hamley lies dead on his bed—­and t’other—­t’other I have never seen, and never heard on till to-day.  He must be called Osborne:  Molly.  There is a Roger—­there’s two for that matter; but one is a good-for-nothing old man; and there’s never an Osborne any more, unless this little thing is called Osborne:  we’ll take him here, and get a nurse for him; and make his mother comfortable for life in her own country.  I’ll keep this, Molly.  You’re a good lass for finding it.  Osborne Hamley!  And if God will give me grace, he shall never hear a cross word from me—­never.  He shan’t be afeard of me.  Oh, my Osborne, my Osborne’ (he burst out), ’do you know now how bitter and sore is my heart for every hard word as I ever spoke to you?  Do you know now how I loved you—­my boy—­my boy?’

From the general tone of the letters Molly doubted if the mother would consent, so easily as the squire seemed to expect, to be parted from her child; the letters were not very wise, perhaps (though of this Molly never thought), but a heart full of love spoke tender words in every line.  Still, it was not for Molly to talk of this doubt of hers just then; rather to dwell on the probable graces and charms of the little Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley.  She let the squire exhaust himself in wondering as to the particulars of every event, helping him out in conjectures; and both of them, from their imperfect knowledge of possibilities, made the most curious, fantastic, and improbable guesses at the truth.  And so that day passed over, and the night came.

There were not many people who had any right to be invited to the funeral, and of these Mr. Gibson and the squire’s hereditary man of business had taken charge.  But when Mr. Gibson came, early on the following morning, Molly referred the question to him, which had suggested itself to her mind, though apparently not to the squire’s.  What intimation of her loss should be sent to the widow, living solitary near Winchester, watching and waiting, if not for his coming who lay dead in his distant home, at least for his letters?  A letter had already come in her foreign handwriting to the post-office to which all her communications were usually sent, but of course they at the Hall knew nothing of this.

‘She must be told!’ said Mr. Gibson, musing.

‘Yes, she must,’ replied her daughter.  ‘But how?’

‘A day or two of waiting will do no harm,’ said he, almost as if he was anxious to delay the solution of the problem.  ’It will make her anxious, poor thing, and all sorts of gloomy possibilities will suggest themselves to her mind—­amongst them the truth; it will be a kind of preparation.’