But after the Robsons settled at Haytersbank, Philip’s evenings were so often spent there that any unconscious hopes Hester might, unawares, have entertained, died away.  At first she had felt a pang akin to jealousy when she heard of Sylvia, the little cousin, who was passing out of childhood into womanhood.  Once—­early in those days—­she had ventured to ask Philip what Sylvia was like.  Philip had not warmed up at the question, and had given rather a dry catalogue of her features, hair, and height, but Hester, almost to her own surprise, persevered, and jerked out the final question.

‘Is she pretty?’

Philip’s sallow cheek grew deeper by two or three shades; but he answered with a tone of indifference,—­

‘I believe some folks think her so.’

‘But do you?’ persevered Hester, in spite of her being aware that he somehow disliked the question.

‘There’s no need for talking o’ such things,’ he answered, with abrupt displeasure.

Hester silenced her curiosity from that time.  But her heart was not quite at ease, and she kept on wondering whether Philip thought his little cousin pretty until she saw her and him together, on that occasion of which we have spoken, when Sylvia came to the shop to buy her new cloak; and after that Hester never wondered whether Philip thought his cousin pretty or no, for she knew quite well.  Bell Robson had her own anxieties on the subject of her daughter’s increasing attractions.  She apprehended the dangers consequent upon certain facts, by a mental process more akin to intuition than reason.  She was uncomfortable, even while her motherly vanity was flattered, at the admiration Sylvia received from the other sex.  This admiration was made evident to her mother in many ways.  When Sylvia was with her at market, it might have been thought that the doctors had prescribed a diet of butter and eggs to all the men under forty in Monkshaven.  At first it seemed to Mrs. Robson but a natural tribute to the superior merit of her farm produce; but by degrees she perceived that if Sylvia remained at home, she stood no better chance than her neighbours of an early sale.  There were more customers than formerly for the fleeces stored in the wool-loft; comely young butchers came after the calf almost before it had been decided to sell it; in short, excuses were seldom wanting to those who wished to see the beauty of Haytersbank Farm.  All this made Bell uncomfortable, though she could hardly have told what she dreaded.  Sylvia herself seemed unspoilt by it as far as her home relations were concerned.  A little thoughtless she had always been, and thoughtless she was still; but, as her mother had often said, ‘Yo’ canna put old heads on young shoulders;’ and if blamed for her carelessness by her parents, Sylvia was always as penitent as she could be for the time being.  To be sure, it was only to her father and mother that she remained the same as she had been when an awkward lassie of thirteen.