Although Daniel himself was unreasoning, hasty, impulsive—­in a word, often thinking and acting very foolishly—­yet, somehow, either from some quality in his character, or from the loyalty of nature in those with whom he had to deal in his every-day life, he had made his place and position clear as the arbiter and law-giver of his household.  On his decision, as that of husband, father, master, perhaps superior natures waited.  So now that he was gone and had left them in such strange new circumstances so suddenly, it seemed as though neither Bell nor Sylvia knew exactly what to do when their grief was spent, so much had every household action and plan been regulated by the thought of him.  Meanwhile Philip had slowly been arriving at the conclusion that he was more wanted at Monkshaven to look after Daniel’s interests, to learn what were the legal probabilities in consequence of the old man’s arrest, and to arrange for his family accordingly, than standing still and silent in the Haytersbank kitchen, too full of fellow-feeling and heavy foreboding to comfort, awkwardly unsympathetic in appearance from the very aching of his heart.

So when his aunt, with instinctive sense of regularity and propriety, began to put away the scarcely tasted dinner, and Sylvia, blinded with crying, and convulsively sobbing, was yet trying to help her mother, Philip took his hat, and brushing it round and round with the sleeve of his coat, said,—­

‘I think I’ll just go back, and see how matters stand.’  He had a more distinct plan in his head than these words implied, but it depended on so many contingencies of which he was ignorant that he said only these few words; and with a silent resolution to see them again that day, but a dread of being compelled to express his fears, so far beyond theirs, he went off without saying anything more.  Then Sylvia lifted up her voice with a great cry.  Somehow she had expected him to do something—­what, she did not know; but he was gone, and they were left without stay or help.

‘Hush thee, hush thee,’ said her mother, trembling all over herself; ‘it’s for the best.  The Lord knows.’

‘But I niver thought he’d leave us,’ moaned Sylvia, half in her mother’s arms, and thinking of Philip.  Her mother took the words as applied to Daniel.

‘And he’d niver ha’ left us, my wench, if he could ha’ stayed.’

‘Oh, mother, mother, it’s Philip as has left us, and he could ha’ stayed.’

’He’ll come back, or mebbe send, I’ll be bound.  Leastways he’ll be gone to see feyther, and he’ll need comfort most on all, in a fremd place—­in Bridewell—­and niver a morsel of victual or a piece o’ money.’  And now she sate down, and wept the dry hot tears that come with such difficulty to the eyes of the aged.  And so—­first one grieving, and then the other, and each draining her own heart of every possible hope by way of comfort, alternately trying to cheer and console—­the February afternoon passed