But once let Molly get a thing well into her head, "trust her," as Ralph said, "not to let it out again till it suited her."
That very evening when they were all sitting together again, working and talking, all except aunty, busily writing at her little table in the corner, Molly began.
"Grandmother dear," she said gently, "wasn't the old lady dreadfully sorry when she heard he was dead?"
For a moment grandmother stared at her in bewilderment—her thoughts had been far away. "What are you saying, my dear?" she asked.
Sylvia frowned at Molly across the table. Too well did she know the peculiarly meek and submissive tone of voice assumed by Molly when bent on—had the subject been any less serious than it was, Sylvia would have called it "mischief."
"Molly," she said reprovingly, finding her frowns calmly ignored.
"What is it?" said Molly sweetly. "I mean, grandmother dear," she proceeded, "I mean the mother of the poor nice man that uncle was so good to. Wasn't she dreadfully sorry when she heard he was dead?"
"I think she was, dear," said grandmother unsuspiciously. "Poor woman, whatever her mistakes with her children had been, I felt dreadfully sorry for her. I saw her a good many times, for your uncle sent me home all the papers and directions—'in case,' as poor Sawyer had said of himself—so my Jack said it."
Grandmother sighed; Sylvia looked still more reproachfully at Molly; Molly pretended to be threading her needle.
"And I got it all settled as her son had wished. He had arranged it so that she could not give away the money during her life. Not long after, she went to America to her other son, and I believe she is still living. He got on very well, and is now a rich man. I had letters from them a few years ago—nice letters. I think it brought out the best of them—Philip Sawyer's death I mean. Still—oh no—they did not care for him, alive or dead, as such a man deserved."