’I could send her on a bit of an errand to Foster’s, and then, for sure, yo’ might keep an eye upon her when she’s in th’ town; and just walk a bit way with her when she’s in th’ street, and keep t’ other fellows off her—­Ned Simpson, t’ butcher, in ’special, for folks do say he means no good by any girl he goes wi’—­and I’ll ask father to leave her a bit more wi’ me.  They’re coming down th’ brow, and Ned Simpson wi’ them.  Now, Philip, I look to thee to do a brother’s part by my wench, and warn off all as isn’t fit.’

The door opened, and the coarse strong voice of Simpson made itself heard.  He was a stout man, comely enough as to form and feature, but with a depth of colour in his face that betokened the coming on of the habits of the sot.  His Sunday hat was in his hand, and he smoothed the long nap of it, as he said, with a mixture of shyness and familiarity—­

‘Sarvant, missus.  Yo’r measter is fain that I should come in an’ have a drop; no offence, I hope?’

Sylvia passed quickly through the house-place, and went upstairs without speaking to her cousin Philip or to any one.  He sat on, disliking the visitor, and almost disliking his hospitable uncle for having brought Simpson into the house, sympathizing with his aunt in the spirit which prompted her curt answers, and in the intervals of all these feelings wondering what ground she had for speaking as if she had now given up all thought of Sylvia and him ever being married, and in what way he was too ‘old-fashioned.’

Robson would gladly have persuaded Philip to join him and Simpson in their drink, but Philip was in no sociable mood, and sate a little aloof, watching the staircase down which sooner or later Sylvia must come; for, as perhaps has been already said, the stairs went up straight out of the kitchen.  And at length his yearning watch was rewarded; first, the little pointed toe came daintily in sight, then the trim ankle in the tight blue stocking, the wool of which was spun and the web of which was knitted by her mother’s careful hands; then the full brown stuff petticoat, the arm holding the petticoat back in decent folds, so as not to encumber the descending feet; the slender neck and shoulders hidden under the folded square of fresh white muslin; the crowning beauty of the soft innocent face radiant in colour, and with the light brown curls clustering around.  She made her way quickly to Philip’s side; how his heart beat at her approach! and even more when she entered into a low-voiced tete-a-tete.

‘Isn’t he gone yet?’ said she.  ‘I cannot abide him; I could ha’ pinched father when he asked him for t’ come in.’

‘Maybe, he’ll not stay long,’ said Philip, hardly understanding the meaning of what he said, so sweet was it to have her making her whispered confidences to him.

But Simpson was not going to let her alone in the dark corner between the door and the window.  He began paying her some coarse country compliments—­too strong in their direct flattery for even her father’s taste, more especially as he saw by his wife’s set lips and frowning brow how much she disapproved of their visitor’s style of conversation.