It happened that Mr. Gibson was unusually busy on this particular day, and he did not return until late in the afternoon.  But Molly kept her place in the drawing-room all the time, not even going to take her customary siesta, so anxious was she to hear everything about Roger’s return, which as yet appeared to her almost incredible.  But it was quite natural in reality; the long monotony of her illness had made her lose all count of time.  When Roger left England, his idea was to coast round Africa on the eastern side until he reached the Cape; and thence to make what further journey or voyage might seem to him best in pursuit of his scientific objects.  To Cape Town all his letters had been addressed of late; and there, two months before, he had received the intelligence of Osborne’s death, as well as Cynthia’s hasty letter of relinquishment.  He did not consider that he was doing wrong in returning to England immediately, and reporting himself to the gentlemen who had sent him out, with a full explanation of the circumstances relating to Osborne’s private marriage and sudden death.  He offered, and they accepted his offer, to go out again for any time that they might think equivalent to the five months he was yet engaged to them for.  They were most of them gentlemen of property, and saw the full importance of proving the marriage of an eldest son, and installing his child as the natural heir to a long-descended estate.  This much information, but in a more condensed form, Mr. Gibson gave to Molly, in a very few minutes.  She sate up on her sofa, looking very pretty with the flush on her cheeks, and the brightness in her eyes.

‘Well!’ said she, when her father stopped speaking.

‘Well! what?’ asked he, playfully.

’Oh! why, such a number of things.  I’ve been waiting all day to ask you all about everything.  How is he looking?’

’If a young man of twenty-four ever does take to growing taller, I should say that he was taller.  As it is, I suppose it is only that he looks broader, stronger—­more muscular.’

‘Oh! is he changed?’ asked Molly, a little disturbed by this account.

’No, not changed; and yet not the same.  He is as brown as a berry for one thing; caught a little of the negro tinge, and a beard as fine and sweeping as my bay-mare’s tail.’

’A beard!  But go on, papa.  Does he talk as he used to do?  I should know his voice amongst ten thousand.’

’I did not catch any Hottentot twang, if that’s what you mean.  Nor did he say, “Caesar and Pompey berry much alike, ’specially Pompey,” which is the only specimen of negro language I can remember just at this moment.’

‘And which I never could see the wit of,’ said Mrs. Gibson, who had come into the room after the conversation had begun; and did not understand what it was aiming at.  Molly fidgeted; she wanted to go on with her questions and keep her father to definite and matter-of-fact answers, and she knew that when his wife chimed into a conversation, Mr. Gibson was very apt to find out that he must go about some necessary piece of business.