to them neither dirt nor the perpetual bustle arising from ill-ordered work detracted from comfort.  They were all of an easy, good-tempered nature; Mrs. Corney and her daughters gave every one a welcome at whatever time of the day they came, and would just as soon sit down for a gossip at ten o’clock in the morning, as at five in the evening, though at the former time the house-place was full of work of various kinds which ought to be got out of hand and done with:  while the latter hour was towards the end of the day, when farmers’ wives and daughters were usually—­’cleaned’ was the word then, ‘dressed’ is that in vogue now.  Of course in such a household as this Sylvia was sure to be gladly received.  She was young, and pretty, and bright, and brought a fresh breeze of pleasant air about her as her appropriate atmosphere.  And besides, Bell Robson held her head so high that visits from her daughter were rather esteemed as a favour, for it was not everywhere that Sylvia was allowed to go.

‘Sit yo’ down, sit yo’ down!’ cried Dame Corney, dusting a chair with her apron; ’a reckon Molly ‘ll be in i’ no time.  She’s nobbut gone int’ t’ orchard, to see if she can find wind-falls enough for t’ make a pie or two for t’ lads.  They like nowt so weel for supper as apple-pies sweetened wi’ treacle, crust stout and leathery, as stands chewing, and we hannot getten in our apples yet.’

‘If Molly is in t’ orchard, I’ll go find her,’ said Sylvia.

‘Well! yo’ lasses will have your conks’ (private talks), ’a know; secrets ‘bout sweethearts and such like,’ said Mrs. Corney, with a knowing look, which made Sylvia hate her for the moment.  ’A’ve not forgotten as a were young mysen.  Tak’ care; there’s a pool o’ mucky watter just outside t’ back-door.’

But Sylvia was half-way across the back-yard—­worse, if possible, than the front as to the condition in which it was kept—­and had passed through the little gate into the orchard.  It was full of old gnarled apple-trees, their trunks covered with gray lichen, in which the cunning chaffinch built her nest in spring-time.  The cankered branches remained on the trees, and added to the knotted interweaving overhead, if they did not to the productiveness; the grass grew in long tufts, and was wet and tangled under foot.  There was a tolerable crop of rosy apples still hanging on the gray old trees, and here and there they showed ruddy in the green bosses of untrimmed grass.  Why the fruit was not gathered, as it was evidently ripe, would have puzzled any one not acquainted with the Corney family to say; but to them it was always a maxim in practice, if not in precept, ‘Do nothing to-day that you can put off till to-morrow,’ and accordingly the apples dropped from the trees at any little gust of wind, and lay rotting on the ground until the ‘lads’ wanted a supply of pies for supper.

Molly saw Sylvia, and came quickly across the orchard to meet her, catching her feet in knots of grass as she hurried along.