Philip took the handkerchief and hoped he had made honourable amends for his want of recognition.  But the wee lassie refused to be lifted down, and whispered something afresh into her mother’s ear, who smiled and bade her be quiet.  Philip saw, however, that there was some wish ungratified on the part of the little maiden which he was expected to inquire into, and, accordingly, he did his duty.

‘She’s a little fool; she says yo’ promised to gi’e her a kiss, and t’ make her yo’r wife.’

The child burrowed her face closer into her mother’s neck, and refused to allow the kiss which Philip willingly offered.  All he could do was to touch the back of the little white fat neck with his lips.  The mother carried her off only half satisfied, and Philip felt that he must try and collect his scattered wits, and be more alive to the occasion.

Towards the dinner-hour the crowd slackened; Hester began to replenish decanters and bottles, and to bring out a fresh cake before she went home to dinner; and Coulson and Philip looked over the joint present they always made to her on this day.  It was a silk handkerchief of the prettiest colours they could pick out of the shop, intended for her to wear round her neck.  Each tried to persuade the other to give it to her, for each was shy of the act of presentation.  Coulson was, however, the most resolute; and when she returned from the parlour the little parcel was in Philip’s hands.

‘Here, Hester,’ said he, going round the counter to her, just as she was leaving the shop.  ’It’s from Coulson and me; a handkerchief for yo’ to wear; and we wish yo’ a happy New Year, and plenty on ’em; and there’s many a one wishes the same.’

He took her hand as he said this.  She went a little paler, and her eyes brightened as though they would fill with tears as they met his; she could not have helped it, do what she would.  But she only said, ‘Thank yo’ kindly,’ and going up to Coulson she repeated the words and action to him; and then they went off together to dinner.

There was a lull of business for the next hour.  John and Jeremiah were dining like the rest of the world.  Even the elder errand-boy had vanished.  Philip rearranged disorderly goods; and then sate down on the counter by the window; it was the habitual place for the one who stayed behind; for excepting on market-day there was little or no custom during the noon-hour.  Formerly he used to move the drapery with which the window was ornamented, and watch the passers-by with careless eye.  But now, though he seemed to gaze abroad, he saw nothing but vacancy.  All the morning since he got up he had been trying to fight through his duties—­leaning against a hope—­a hope that first had bowed, and then had broke as soon as he really tried its weight.  There was not a sign of Sylvia’s liking for him to be gathered from the most careful recollection of the past evening.  It was of no use thinking that there was.  It was better to give it up altogether and at once.  But what if he could not?  What if the thought of her was bound up with his life; and that once torn out by his own free will, the very roots of his heart must come also?