’And when did I say a word again King George and the Constitution?  I only ax ’em to govern me as I judge best, and that’s what I call representation.  When I gived my vote to Measter Cholmley to go up to t’ Parliament House, I as good as said, ‘Now yo’ go up theer, sir, and tell ’em what I, Dannel Robson, think right, and what I, Dannel Robson, wish to have done.’  Else I’d be darned if I’d ha’ gi’en my vote to him or any other man.  And div yo’ think I want Seth Robson ( as is my own brother’s son, and mate to a collier) to be cotched up by a press-gang, and ten to one his wages all unpaid?  Div yo’ think I’d send up Measter Cholmley to speak up for that piece o’ work?  Not I.’  He took up his pipe again, shook out the ashes, puffed it into a spark, and shut his eyes, preparatory to listening.

’But, asking pardon, laws is made for the good of the nation, not for your good or mine.’

Daniel could not stand this.  He laid down his pipe, opened his eyes, stared straight at Philip before speaking, in order to enforce his words, and then said slowly—­

’Nation here! nation theere!  I’m a man and yo’re another, but nation’s nowheere.  If Measter Cholmley talked to me i’ that fashion, he’d look long for another vote frae me.  I can make out King George, and Measter Pitt, and yo’ and me, but nation! nation, go hang!’

Philip, who sometimes pursued an argument longer than was politic for himself, especially when he felt sure of being on the conquering side, did not see that Daniel Robson was passing out of the indifference of conscious wisdom into that state of anger which ensues when a question becomes personal in some unspoken way.  Robson had contested this subject once or twice before, and had the remembrance of former disputes to add to his present vehemence.  So it was well for the harmony of the evening that Bell and Sylvia returned from the kitchen to sit in the house-place.  They had been to wash up the pans and basins used for supper; Sylvia had privately shown off her cloak, and got over her mother’s shake of the head at its colour with a coaxing kiss, at the end of which her mother had adjusted her cap with a ‘There! there! ha’ done wi’ thee,’ but had no more heart to show her disapprobation; and now they came back to their usual occupations until it should please their visitor to go; then they would rake the fire and be off to bed; for neither Sylvia’s spinning nor Bell’s knitting was worth candle-light, and morning hours are precious in a dairy.

People speak of the way in which harp-playing sets off a graceful figure; spinning is almost as becoming an employment.  A woman stands at the great wool-wheel, one arm extended, the other holding the thread, her head thrown back to take in all the scope of her occupation; or if it is the lesser spinning-wheel for flax—­and it was this that Sylvia moved forwards to-night—­the pretty sound of the buzzing, whirring motion, the attitude of the spinner, foot and hand alike engaged in the business—­the bunch of gay coloured ribbon that ties the bundle of flax on the rock—­all make it into a picturesque piece of domestic business that may rival harp-playing any day for the amount of softness and grace which it calls out.