Suddenly every one looked round towards the path from the churchyard steps.  Two sailors were supporting a ghastly figure that, with feeble motions, was drawing near the open grave.

‘It’s t’ specksioneer as tried to save him!  It’s him as was left for dead!’ the people murmured round.

‘It’s Charley Kinraid, as I’m a sinner!’ said Molly, starting forward to greet her cousin.

But as he came on, she saw that all his strength was needed for the mere action of walking.  The sailors, in their strong sympathy, had yielded to his earnest entreaty, and carried him up the steps, in order that he might see the last of his messmate.  They placed him near the grave, resting against a stone; and he was hardly there before the vicar came forth, and the great crowd poured out of the church, following the body to the grave.

Sylvia was so much wrapt up in the solemnity of the occasion, that she had no thought to spare at the first moment for the pale and haggard figure opposite; much less was she aware of her cousin Philip, who now singling her out for the first time from among the crowd, pressed to her side, with an intention of companionship and protection.

As the service went on, ill-checked sobs rose from behind the two girls, who were among the foremost in the crowd, and by-and-by the cry and the wail became general.  Sylvia’s tears rained down her face, and her distress became so evident that it attracted the attention of many in that inner circle.  Among others who noticed it, the specksioneer’s hollow eyes were caught by the sight of the innocent blooming childlike face opposite to him, and he wondered if she were a relation; yet, seeing that she bore no badge of mourning, he rather concluded that she must have been a sweetheart of the dead man.

And now all was over:  the rattle of the gravel on the coffin; the last long, lingering look of friends and lovers; the rosemary sprigs had been cast down by all who were fortunate enough to have brought them—­and oh! how much Sylvia wished she had remembered this last act of respect—­and slowly the outer rim of the crowd began to slacken and disappear.

Now Philip spoke to Sylvia.

’I never dreamt of seeing you here.  I thought my aunt always went to Kirk Moorside.’

‘I came with Molly Corney,’ said Sylvia.  ’Mother is staying at home with feyther.’

‘How’s his rheumatics?’ asked Philip.

But at the same moment Molly took hold of Sylvia’s hand, and said—­

‘A want t’ get round and speak to Charley.  Mother ’ll be main and glad to hear as he’s getten out; though, for sure, he looks as though he’d ha’ been better in ‘s bed.  Come, Sylvia.’

And Philip, fain to keep with Sylvia, had to follow the two girls close up to the specksioneer, who was preparing for his slow laborious walk back to his lodgings.  He stopped on seeing his cousin.

‘Well, Molly,’ said he, faintly, putting out his hand, but his eye passing her face to look at Sylvia in the background, her tear-stained face full of shy admiration of the nearest approach to a hero she had ever seen.