’Oh, I beg your pardon, miss; I was thinking what may the price of yon crimson ribbon be?’

Hester said nothing, but went to examine the shop-mark.

’Oh!  I did not mean that I wanted any, I only want some stuff for a cloak.  Thank you, miss, but I am very sorry—­some duffle, please.’

Hester silently replaced the ribbon and went in search of the duffle.  While she was gone Sylvia was addressed by the very person she most wished to avoid, and whose absence she had rejoiced over on first entering the shop, her cousin Philip Hepburn.

He was a serious-looking young man, tall, but with a slight stoop in his shoulders, brought on by his occupation.  He had thick hair standing off from his forehead in a peculiar but not unpleasing manner; a long face, with a slightly aquiline nose, dark eyes, and a long upper lip, which gave a disagreeable aspect to a face that might otherwise have been good-looking.

‘Good day, Sylvie,’ he said; ’what are you wanting?  How are all at home?  Let me help you!’

Sylvia pursed up her red lips, and did not look at him as she replied,

’I’m very well, and so is mother; feyther’s got a touch of rheumatiz, and there’s a young woman getting what I want.’

She turned a little away from him when she had ended this sentence, as if it had comprised all she could possibly have to say to him.  But he exclaimed,

‘You won’t know how to choose,’ and, seating himself on the counter, he swung himself over after the fashion of shop-men.

Sylvia took no notice of him, but pretended to be counting over her money.

‘What do you want, Sylvie?’ asked he, at last annoyed at her silence.

’I don’t like to be called “Sylvie;” my name is Sylvia; and I’m wanting duffle for a cloak, if you must know.’

Hester now returned, with a shop-boy helping her to drag along the great rolls of scarlet and gray cloth.

‘Not that,’ said Philip, kicking the red duffle with his foot, and speaking to the lad.  ‘It’s the gray you want, is it not, Sylvie?’ He used the name he had had the cousin’s right to call her by since her childhood, without remembering her words on the subject not five minutes before; but she did, and was vexed.

’Please, miss, it is the scarlet duffle I want; don’t let him take it away.’

Hester looked up at both their countenances, a little wondering what was their position with regard to each other; for this, then, was the beautiful little cousin about whom Philip had talked to her mother, as sadly spoilt, and shamefully ignorant; a lovely little dunce, and so forth.  Hester had pictured Sylvia Robson, somehow, as very different from what she was:  younger, more stupid, not half so bright and charming (for, though she was now both pouting and cross, it was evident that this was not her accustomed mood).  Sylvia devoted her attention to the red cloth, pushing aside the gray.