Miss Baynard paid two more visits to Lawn Cottage before the time came for her and her uncle to go back to Stanbrook. Evan was at home on both occasions, and on both occasions they went together for a long walk. The boy took to her from the first. He was a handsome, healthy child, and--or so it seemed to Nell--wonderfully like what his father must have been at the same age. She would have liked dearly to take him and set him down suddenly in front of the Squire, and leave the rest to Nature's prompting, but such a course was out of the question. All she could do was to extort a promise from Mrs. Cortelyon that if that should come to pass which she herself asserted to be inevitable, and the boy before long be left motherless, then should she, Nell, be informed, either by Mr. Dare or Mr. McManus, where he could at any time be found, and should be allowed to have access to him as often as she might feel disposed to claim the privilege. When the time came for the two women to say goodbye, both knew that the parting was a final one, but not a word was said by either to that effect. Both feigned a cheerfulness which was the last thing in the heart of either, and it was a relief to both when the ordeal was over and the door shut between them. Then came the time for tears. Before leaving town Nell paid a second visit to Mr. McManus, and got him to promise to write to her as soon as all was over. It was a promise the old tobacconist faithfully kept, and Nell had only been six weeks back at home when the fatal tidings reached her. After a little time given to tears in the solitude of her room, she dried her eyes and went in search of her uncle. She found him in the library, dusting and gloating over one of his cases of coins. He looked up sourly as the door opened. When so engaged he did not like being interrupted, but for that Nell cared not at all. Walking directly up to the table, she said without preface: "Uncle, news has just reached me of the death of poor Dick's widow. She died of consumption three days ago." The Squire dropped his duster, and, leaning back in his chair, grasped an arm of it with either hand, and turned his cold eyes full upon her. "And pray, Miss Baynard, may I ask in what way the news concerns me?" He had not called her "Miss Baynard" since her last mention of her cousin's name more than four years before, and Nell did not forget it. But she was in no wise daunted. "If you choose to consider that the death of your son's wife is no concern of yours, so be it. That is a matter between yourself and your conscience. But, in case the fact should have escaped your memory, I may be allowed to remind you that Dick left a child behind him--a son--who is now both fatherless and motherless." "And what have I to do with that?"