When every scrap of porridge was cleared out of the mighty bowl, Kester yawned, and wishing good-night, withdrew to his loft over the cow-house.  Then Philip pulled out the weekly York paper, and began to read the latest accounts of the war then raging.  This was giving Daniel one of his greatest pleasures; for though he could read pretty well, yet the double effort of reading and understanding what he read was almost too much for him.  He could read, or he could understand what was read aloud to him; reading was no pleasure, but listening was.

Besides, he had a true John Bullish interest in the war, without very well knowing what the English were fighting for.  But in those days, so long as they fought the French for any cause, or for no cause at all, every true patriot was satisfied.  Sylvia and her mother did not care for any such far-extended interest; a little bit of York news, the stealing of a few apples out of a Scarborough garden that they knew, was of far more interest to them than all the battles of Nelson and the North.

Philip read in a high-pitched and unnatural tone of voice, which deprived the words of their reality; for even familiar expressions can become unfamiliar and convey no ideas, if the utterance is forced or affected.  Philip was somewhat of a pedant; yet there was a simplicity in his pedantry not always to be met with in those who are self-taught, and which might have interested any one who cared to know with what labour and difficulty he had acquired the knowledge which now he prized so highly; reading out Latin quotations as easily as if they were English, and taking a pleasure in rolling polysyllables, until all at once looking askance at Sylvia, he saw that her head had fallen back, her pretty rosy lips open, her eyes fast shut; in short, she was asleep.

‘Ay,’ said Farmer Robson, ‘and t’ reading has a’most sent me off.  Mother ‘d look angry now if I was to tell yo’ yo’ had a right to a kiss; but when I was a young man I’d ha’ kissed a pretty girl as I saw asleep, afore yo’d said Jack Robson.’

Philip trembled at these words, and looked at his aunt.  She gave him no encouragement, standing up, and making as though she had never heard her husband’s speech, by extending her hand, and wishing him ‘good-night.’  At the noise of the chairs moving over the flag floor, Sylvia started up, confused and annoyed at her father’s laughter.

‘Ay, lass; it’s iver a good time t’ fall asleep when a young fellow is by.  Here’s Philip here as thou’rt bound t’ give a pair o’ gloves to.’

Sylvia went like fire; she turned to her mother to read her face.

‘It’s only father’s joke, lass,’ said she.  ’Philip knows manners too well.’

‘He’d better,’ said Sylvia, flaming round at him.  ’If he’d a touched me, I’d niver ha’ spoken to him no more.’  And she looked even as it was as if she was far from forgiving him.

‘Hoots, lass! wenches are brought up sa mim, now-a-days; i’ my time they’d ha’ thought na’ such great harm of a kiss.’