Kester stood still; then he shook his head slowly.

‘It’s t’ work at t’ Randyvowse as a’m afeared on.  Some folks thinks such a deal o’ a bonfire.  Then a may lay me down afore t’ fire, missus?’ said he, beseechingly.

‘Nay, Kester—­’ she began; but suddenly changing, she said, ’God bless thee, my man; come in and lay thee down on t’ settle, and I’ll cover thee up wi’ my cloak as hangs behind t’ door.  We’re not many on us that love him, an’ we’ll be all on us under one roof, an’ niver a stone wall or a lock betwixt us.’

So Kester took up his rest in the house-place that night, and none knew of it besides Bell.

CHAPTER XXV

COMING TROUBLES

The morning brought more peace if it did not entirely dissipate fear.  Daniel seemed to have got over his irritability, and was unusually kind and tender to wife and daughter, especially striving by silent little deeds to make up for the sharp words he had said the night before to the latter.

As if by common consent, all allusion to the Saturday night’s proceedings was avoided.  They spoke of the day’s work before them; of the crops to be sown; of the cattle; of the markets; but each one was conscious of a wish to know more distinctly what were the chances of the danger that, to judge from Philip’s words, hung over them, falling upon them and cutting them off from all these places for the coming days.

Bell longed to send Kester down into Monkshaven as a sort of spy to see how the land lay; but she dared not manifest her anxiety to her husband, and could not see Kester alone.  She wished that she had told him to go to the town, when she had had him to herself in the house-place the night before; now it seemed as though Daniel were resolved not to part from him, and as though both had forgotten that any peril had been anticipated.  Sylvia and her mother, in like manner, clung together, not speaking of their fears, yet each knowing that it was ever present in the other’s mind.

So things went on till twelve o’clock—­dinner-time.  If at any time that morning they had had the courage to speak together on the thought which was engrossing all their minds, it is possible that some means might have been found to avert the calamity that was coming towards them with swift feet.  But among the uneducated—­the partially educated—­nay, even the weakly educated—­the feeling exists which prompted the futile experiment of the well-known ostrich.  They imagine that, by closing their own eyes to apprehended evil, they avert it.  The expression of fear is supposed to accelerate the coming of its cause.  Yet, on the other hand, they shrink from acknowledging the long continuance of any blessing, in the idea that when unusual happiness is spoken about, it disappears.  So, although perpetual complaints of past or present grievances and sorrows are most common among this class, they shrink from embodying apprehensions for the future in words, as if it then took shape and drew near.