Philip Hepburn was vexed at his advice being slighted; and yet he urged it afresh.

’This is a respectable, quiet-looking article that will go well with any colour; you niver will be so foolish as to take what will mark with every drop of rain.’

‘I’m sorry you sell such good-for-nothing things,’ replied Sylvia, conscious of her advantage, and relaxing a little (as little as she possibly could) of her gravity.

Hester came in now.

’He means to say that this cloth will lose its first brightness in wet or damp; but it will always be a good article, and the colour will stand a deal of wear.  Mr. Foster would not have had it in his shop else.’

Philip did not like that even a reasonable peace-making interpreter should come between him and Sylvia, so he held his tongue in indignant silence.

Hester went on: 

’To be sure, this gray is the closer make, and would wear the longest.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Sylvia, still rejecting the dull gray.  ’I like this best.  Eight yards, if you please, miss.’

‘A cloak takes nine yards, at least,’ said Philip, decisively.

‘Mother told me eight,’ said Sylvia, secretly conscious that her mother would have preferred the more sober colour; and feeling that as she had had her own way in that respect, she was bound to keep to the directions she had received as to the quantity.  But, indeed, she would not have yielded to Philip in anything that she could help.

There was a sound of children’s feet running up the street from the river-side, shouting with excitement.  At the noise, Sylvia forgot her cloak and her little spirit of vexation, and ran to the half-door of the shop.  Philip followed because she went.  Hester looked on with passive, kindly interest, as soon as she had completed her duty of measuring.  One of those girls whom Sylvia had seen as she and Molly left the crowd on the quay, came quickly up the street.  Her face, which was handsome enough as to feature, was whitened with excess of passionate emotion, her dress untidy and flying, her movements heavy and free.  She belonged to the lowest class of seaport inhabitants.  As she came near, Sylvia saw that the tears were streaming down her cheeks, quite unconsciously to herself.  She recognized Sylvia’s face, full of interest as it was, and stopped her clumsy run to speak to the pretty, sympathetic creature.

‘She’s o’er t’ bar!  She’s o’er t’ bar!  I’m boun’ to tell mother!’

She caught at Sylvia’s hand, and shook it, and went on breathless and gasping.

‘Sylvia, how came you to know that girl?’ asked Philip, sternly.  ’She’s not one for you to be shaking hands with.  She’s known all down t’ quay-side as “Newcastle Bess."’