‘Come, measter, leave t’ lass alone; she’s set up enough a’ready, her mother makes such a deal on her.  Yo’ an’ me’s men for sensible talk at our time o’ life.  An’, as I was saying, t’ horse was a weaver if iver one was, as any one could ha’ told as had come within a mile on him.’

And in this way the old farmer and the bluff butcher chatted on about horses, while Philip and Sylvia sate together, he turning over all manner of hopes and projects for the future, in spite of his aunt’s opinion that he was too ‘old-fashioned’ for her dainty, blooming daughter.  Perhaps, too, Mrs. Robson saw some reason for changing her mind on this head as she watched Sylvia this night, for she accompanied Philip to the door, when the time came for him to start homewards, and bade him ‘good-night’ with unusual fervour, adding—­

‘Thou’st been a deal o’ comfort to me, lad—­a’most as one as if thou wert a child o’ my own, as at times I could welly think thou art to be.  Anyways, I trust to thee to look after the lile lass, as has no brother to guide her among men—­and men’s very kittle for a woman to deal wi; but if thou’lt have an eye on whom she consorts wi’, my mind ‘ll be easier.’

Philip’s heart beat fast, but his voice was as calm as usual when he replied—­

’I’d just keep her a bit aloof from Monkshaven folks; a lass is always the more thought on for being chary of herself; and as for t’ rest, I’ll have an eye to the folks she goes among, and if I see that they don’t befit her, I’ll just give her a warning, for she’s not one to like such chaps as yon Simpson there; she can see what’s becoming in a man to say to a lass, and what’s not.’

Philip set out on his two-mile walk home with a tumult of happiness in his heart.  He was not often carried away by delusions of his own creating; to-night he thought he had good ground for believing that by patient self-restraint he might win Sylvia’s love.  A year ago he had nearly earned her dislike by obtruding upon her looks and words betokening his passionate love.  He alarmed her girlish coyness, as well as wearied her with the wish he had then felt that she should take an interest in his pursuits.  But, with unusual wisdom, he had perceived his mistake; it was many months now since he had betrayed, by word or look, that she was anything more to him than a little cousin to be cared for and protected when need was.  The consequence was that she had become tamed, just as a wild animal is tamed; he had remained tranquil and impassive, almost as if he did not perceive her shy advances towards friendliness.  These advances were made by her after the lessons had ceased.  She was afraid lest he was displeased with her behaviour in rejecting his instructions, and was not easy till she was at peace with him; and now, to all appearance, he and she were perfect friends, but nothing more.  In his absence she would not allow her young companions to laugh at his grave sobriety of character, and somewhat