Sylvia scouted the notion of cousin Philip coming into their household in the character of an amusing or entertaining person, till she nearly made her mother angry at her ridicule of the good steady young fellow, to whom Bell looked up as the pattern of all that early manhood should be.  But the moment Sylvia saw she had been giving her mother pain, she left off her wilful little jokes, and kissed her, and told her she would manage all famously, and ran out of the back-kitchen, in which mother and daughter had been scrubbing the churn and all the wooden implements of butter-making.  Bell looked at the pretty figure of her little daughter, as, running past with her apron thrown over her head, she darkened the window beneath which her mother was doing her work.  She paused just for a moment, and then said, almost unawares to herself, ‘Bless thee, lass,’ before resuming her scouring of what already looked almost snow-white.

Sylvia scampered across the rough farmyard in the wetting, drizzling rain to the place where she expected to find Kester; but he was not there, so she had to retrace her steps to the cow-house, and, making her way up a rough kind of ladder-staircase fixed straight against the wall, she surprised Kester as he sat in the wool-loft, looking over the fleeces reserved for the home-spinning, by popping her bright face, swathed round with her blue woollen apron, up through the trap-door, and thus, her head the only visible part, she addressed the farm-servant, who was almost like one of the family.

‘Kester, feyther’s just tiring hissel’ wi’ weariness an’ vexation, sitting by t’ fireside wi’ his hands afore him, an’ nought to do.  An’ mother and me can’t think on aught as ’ll rouse him up to a bit of a laugh, or aught more cheerful than a scolding.  Now, Kester, thou mun just be off, and find Harry Donkin th’ tailor, and bring him here; it’s gettin’ on for Martinmas, an’ he’ll be coming his rounds, and he may as well come here first as last, and feyther’s clothes want a deal o’ mending up, and Harry’s always full of his news, and anyhow he’ll do for feyther to scold, an’ be a new person too, and that’s somewhat for all on us.  Now go, like a good old Kester as yo’ are.’

Kester looked at her with loving, faithful admiration.  He had set himself his day’s work in his master’s absence, and was very desirous of finishing it, but, somehow, he never dreamed of resisting Sylvia, so he only stated the case.

‘T’ ‘ool’s a vast o’ muck in ‘t, an’ a thowt as a’d fettle it, an’ do it up; but a reckon a mun do yo’r biddin’.’

‘There’s a good old Kester,’ said she, smiling, and nodding her muffled head at him; then she dipped down out of his sight, then rose up again (he had never taken his slow, mooney eyes from the spot where she had disappeared) to say—­’Now, Kester, be wary and deep—­thou mun tell Harry Donkin not to let on as we’ve sent for him, but just to come in as if he were on his round, and took us first; and he mun ask feyther if there is any work for him to do; and I’ll answer for ’t, he’ll have a welcome and a half.  Now, be deep and fause, mind thee!’