’I don’t want to hear anything against her:  she may have her faults, but I can never forget how I once loved her.’

’Well, well!  Perhaps it’s right.  I was not so bad about it, was I, Roger?  Poor Osborne need not ha’ been so secret with me.  I asked your Miss Cynthia out here—­and her mother and all—­my bark is worse than my bite.  For if I had a wish on earth it was to see Osborne married as befitted one of an old stock, and he went and chose out this French girl, of no family at all, only a—­’

’Never mind what she was; look at what she is!  I wonder you are not more taken with her humility and sweetness, father!’

‘I don’t even call her pretty,’ said the squire, uneasily, for he dreaded a repetition of the arguments which Roger had often used to make him give Aimee her proper due of affection and position.  ’Now your Miss Cynthia was pretty, I will say that for her, the baggage! and to think that when you two lads flew right in your father’s face, and picked out girls below you in rank and family, you should neither of you have set your fancies on my little Molly there.  I daresay I should ha’ been angry enough at the time, but the lassie would ha’ found her way to my heart, as never this French lady, nor t’ other one, could ha’ done.’

Roger did not answer.

’I don’t see why you might not put up for her still.  I’m humble enough now, and you’re not heir as Osborne was who married a servant-maid.  Don’t you think you could turn your thoughts upon Molly Gibson, Roger.’

‘No!’ said Roger, shortly.  ’It’s too late—­too late.  Don’t let us talk any more of my marrying.  Is not this the five-acre field?’ And soon he was discussing the relative values of meadow, arable and pasture land with his father, as heartily as if he had never known Molly, or loved Cynthia.  But the squire was not in such good spirits, and went but heavily into the discussion.  At the end of it he said apropos de bottes,—­

‘But don’t you think you could like her if you tried, Roger?’

Roger knew perfectly well to what his father was alluding, but for an instant he was on the point of pretending to misunderstand.  At length, however, he said, in a low voice,—­

’I shall never try, father.  Don’t let us talk any more about it.  As I said before, it is too late.’

The squire was like a child to whom some toy has been refused; from time to time the thought of his disappointment in this matter recurred to his mind; and then he took to blaming Cynthia as the primary cause of Roger’s present indifference to womankind.

It so happened that on Molly’s last morning at the Hall, she received her first letter from Cynthia—­Mrs. Henderson.  It was just before breakfast-time:  Roger was out of doors, Aimee had not as yet come down; Molly was alone in the dining-room, where the table was already laid.  She had just finished reading her letter when the squire came in, and she immediately and joyfully told him what the morning had brought to her.  But when she saw the squire’s face she could have bitten her tongue out for having named Cynthia’s name to him.  He looked vexed and depressed.