‘For what?  Something must be done at last,’ said Molly.

’Yes; true.  Suppose you write, and say he is very ill; write to-morrow.  I daresay they have indulged themselves in daily postage, and then she’ll have had three days’ silence.  You say how you come to know all how and about it; I think she ought to know he is very ill—­in great danger, if you like:  and you can follow it up next day with the full truth.  I would not worry the squire about it.  After the funeral we will have a talk about the child.’

‘She will never part with it,’ said Molly.

‘Whew!  Till I see the woman I can’t tell,’ said her father; ’some women would.  It will be well provided for, according to what you say.  And she is a foreigner, and may very likely wish to go back to her own people and kindred.  There’s much to be said on both sides.’

’So you always say, papa.  But in this case I think you’ll find I’m right.  I judge from her letters; but I think I’m right.’

’So you always say, daughter.  Time will show.  So the child is a boy?  Mrs. Gibson told me particularly to ask.  It will go far to reconciling her to Cynthia’s dismissal of Roger.  But indeed it is quite as well for both of them, though of course he will be a long time before he thinks so.  They were not suited to each other.  Poor Roger!  It was hard work writing to him yesterday; and who knows what may have become of him!  Well, well! one has to get through the world somehow.  I’m glad, however, this little lad has turned up to be the heir.  I should not have liked the property to go to the Irish Hamleys, who are the next heirs, as Osborne once told me.  Now write that letter, Molly, to the poor little Frenchwoman out yonder.  It will prepare her for it; and we must think a bit how to spare her the shock, for Osborne’s sake.’

The writing this letter was rather difficult work for Molly, and she tore up two or three copies before she could manage it to her satisfaction; and at last, in despair of ever doing it better, she sent it off without re-reading it.  The next day was easier; the fact of Osborne’s death was told briefly and tenderly.  But when this second letter was sent off, Molly’s heart began to bleed for the poor creature, bereft of her husband, in a foreign land, and he at a distance from her, dead and buried without her ever having had the chance of printing his dear features on her memory by one last long lingering look.  With her thoughts full of the unknown Aimee, Molly talked much about her that day to the squire.  He would listen for ever to any conjecture, however wild, about the grandchild, but perpetually winced away from all discourse about ‘the Frenchwoman,’ as he called her; not unkindly, but to his mind she was simply the Frenchwoman—­ chattering, dark-eyed, demonstrative, and possibly even rouged.  He would treat her with respect as his son’s widow, and would try even not to think upon the female inveiglement in which he believed.  He would make her an allowance to the extent of his duty; but he hoped and trusted he might never be called upon to see her.  His solicitor, Gibson, anybody and everybody, should be called upon to form a phalanx of defence against that danger.