'Go downstairs, Molly,' said he gravely; but he stroked her head tenderly as she rose. 'Go into the dining-room.' Now she felt the reaction from all her self-control. She trembled with fear as she went along the moonlit passages. It seemed to her as if she should meet Osborne, and hear it all explained; how he came to die,--what he now felt and thought and wished her to do. She did get down to the dining- room,--the last few steps with a rush of terror,--senseless terror of what might be behind her; and there she found supper laid out, and candles lit, and Robinson bustling about decanting some wine. She wanted to cry; to get into some quiet place, and weep away her over- excitement; but she could hardly do so there. She only felt very much tired, and to care for nothing in this world any more. But vividness of life came back when she found Robinson holding a glass to her lips as she sate in the great leather easy-chair, to which she had gone instinctively as to a place of rest.

'Drink, Miss. It's good old Madeira. Your papa said as how you was to eat a bit. Says he, "My daughter may have to stay here, Mr Robinson, and she's young for the work. Persuade her to eat something, or she'll break down utterly." Those was his very words.'

Molly did not say anything. She had not energy enough for resistance. She drank and she ate at the old servant's bidding; and then she asked him to leave her alone, and went back to her easy-chair and let herself cry, and so ease her heart.

CHAPTER LII

SQUIRE HAMLEY'S SORROW

It seemed very long before Mr. Gibson came down. He went and stood with his back to the empty fireplace, and did not speak for a minute or two.

'He's gone to bed,' said he at length. 'Robinson and I have got him there. But just as I was leaving him he called me back, and asked me to let you stop. I'm sure I don't know--but one doesn't like to refuse at such a time.'

'I wish to stay,' said Molly.

'Do you? There's a good girl. But how will you manage?'

'Oh, never mind that. I can manage. Papa,'--she paused--what did Osborne die of?' She asked the question in a low, awe-stricken voice.

'Something wrong about the heart. You wouldn't understand if I told you. I apprehended it for some time; but it is better not to talk of such things at home. When I saw him on Thursday week, he seemed better than I have seen him for a long time. I told Dr Nicholls so. But one never can calculate in these complaints.'

'You saw him on Thursday week? Why, you never mentioned it!' said Molly.

'No. I don't talk of my patients at home, Besides, I didn't want him to consider me as his doctor, but as a friend. Any alarm about his own health would only have hastened the catastrophe.'

'Then didn't he know that he was ill--ill of a dangerous complaint, I mean, one that might end as it has done?'

'No; certainly not. He would only have been watching his symptoms-- accelerating matters, in fact.'

'Oh, papa!' said Molly, shocked.