‘I dunnot know,’ said Hester, sadly.  They were now jolting over the paved streets, and not a word could be spoken.  They were now at Philip’s door, which was opened to receive them even before they arrived, as if some one had been watching and listening.  The old servant, Phoebe, the fixture in the house, who had belonged to it and to the shop for the last twenty years, came out, holding a candle and sheltering it in her hand from the weather, while Philip helped the tottering steps of Mrs. Robson as she descended behind.  As Hester had got in last, so she had now to be the first to move.  Just as she was moving, Sylvia’s cold little hand was laid on her arm.

‘I am main and thankful to yo’.  I ask yo’r pardon for speaking cross, but, indeed, my heart’s a’most broken wi’ fear about feyther.’

The voice was so plaintive, so full of tears, that Hester could not but yearn towards the speaker.  She bent over and kissed her cheek, and then clambered unaided down by the wheel on the dark side of the cart.  Wistfully she longed for one word of thanks or recognition from Philip, in whose service she had performed this hard task; but he was otherwise occupied, and on casting a further glance back as she turned the corner of the street, she saw Philip lifting Sylvia carefully down in his arms from her footing on the top of the wheel, and then they all went into the light and the warmth, the door was shut, the lightened cart drove briskly away, and Hester, in rain, and cold, and darkness, went homewards with her tired sad heart.

Philip had done all he could, since his return from lawyer Dawson’s, to make his house bright and warm for the reception of his beloved.  He had a strong apprehension of the probable fate of poor Daniel Robson; he had a warm sympathy with the miserable distress of the wife and daughter; but still at the back of his mind his spirits danced as if this was to them a festal occasion.  He had even taken unconscious pleasure in Phoebe’s suspicious looks and tones, as he had hurried and superintended her in her operations.  A fire blazed cheerily in the parlour, almost dazzling to the travellers brought in from the darkness and the rain; candles burned—­two candles, much to Phoebe’s discontent.  Poor Bell Robson had to sit down almost as soon as she entered the room, so worn out was she with fatigue and excitement; yet she grudged every moment which separated her, as she thought, from her husband.

‘I’m ready now,’ said she, standing up, and rather repulsing Sylvia’s cares; ‘I’m ready now,’ said she, looking eagerly at Philip, as if for him to lead the way.

‘It’s not to-night,’ replied he, almost apologetically.  ’You can’t see him to-night; it’s to-morrow morning before he goes to York; it was better for yo’ to be down here in town ready; and beside I didn’t know when I sent for ye that he was locked up for the night.’

‘Well-a-day, well-a-day,’ said Bell, rocking herself backwards and forwards, and trying to soothe herself with these words.  Suddenly she said,—­