‘Food—­bread and milk for baby.’  But when they brought her food herself, she only shrank away and turned her face to the wall without a word.  In the hurry the child had been left with Robinson and the squire.  For some unknown, but most fortunate reason, he took a dislike to Robinson’s red face and hoarse voice, and showed a most decided preference for his grandfather.  When Molly came down she found the squire feeding the child, with more of peace upon his face than there had been for all these days.  The boy was every now and then leaving off taking his bread and milk to show his dislike to Robinson by word and gesture:  a proceeding which only amused the old servant, while it highly delighted the more favoured squire.

’She is lying very still, but she will neither speak nor eat.  I don’t even think she is crying,’ said Molly, volunteering this account, for the squire was for the moment too much absorbed in his grandson to ask many questions.

Robinson put in his word,—­’Dick Hayward, he’s Boots at the Hamley Arms, says the coach she come by started at five this morning from London, and the passengers said she’d been crying a deal on the road, when she thought folks were not noticing; and she never came in to meals with the rest, but stopped feeding her child.’

‘She’ll be tired out; we must let her rest,’ said the squire.  ’And I do believe this little chap is going to sleep in my arms.  God bless him.’

But Molly stole out, and sent off a lad to Hollingford with a note to her father.  Her heart had warmed towards the poor stranger, and she felt uncertain as to what ought to be the course pursued in her case.

She went up from time to time to look at the girl, scarce older than herself, who lay there with her eyes open, but as motionless as death.  She softly covered her over, and let her feel the sympathetic presence from time to time; and that was all she was allowed to do.  The squire was curiously absorbed in the child; but Molly’s supreme tenderness was for the mother.  Not but what she admired the sturdy, gallant, healthy little fellow, whose every limb, and square inch of clothing, showed the tender and thrifty care that had been taken of him.  By-and-by the squire said in a whisper,—­

‘She is not like a Frenchwoman, is she, Molly?’

’I don’t know.  I don’t know what Frenchwomen are like.  People say Cynthia is French.’

’And she did not look like a servant?  We won’t speak of Cynthia since she’s served my Roger so.  Why, I began to think, as soon as I could think after that, how I would make Roger and her happy, and have them married at once; and then came that letter!  I never wanted her for a daughter-in-law, not I. But he did, it seems; and he was not one for wanting many things for himself.  But it’s all over now; only we won’t talk of her; and maybe, as you say, she was more French than English.  The poor thing looks like a gentlewoman, I think.  I hope she’s got friends who’ll take care of her,—­she can’t be above twenty.  I thought she must be older than my poor lad!’