‘But I’ve brought his comforter wi’ me—­his red woollen comforter as he’s allays slept in this twelvemonth past; he’ll get his rheumatiz again; oh, Philip, cannot I get it to him?’

‘I’ll send it by Phoebe,’ said Philip, who was busy making tea, hospitable and awkward.

‘Cannot I take it mysel’?’ repeated Bell.  ’I could make surer nor anybody else; they’d maybe not mind yon woman—­Phoebe d’ye call her?’

‘Nay, mother,’ said Sylvia, ‘thou’s not fit to go.’

‘Shall I go?’ asked Philip, hoping she would say ‘no’, and be content with Phoebe, and leave him where he was.

‘Oh, Philip, would yo’?’ said Sylvia, turning round.

‘Ay,’ said Bell, ‘if thou would take it they’d be minding yo’.’

So there was nothing for it but for him to go, in the first flush of his delightful rites of hospitality.

‘It’s not far,’ said he, consoling himself rather than them.  ’I’ll be back in ten minutes, the tea is maskit, and Phoebe will take yo’r wet things and dry ’em by t’ kitchen fire; and here’s the stairs,’ opening a door in the corner of the room, from which the stairs immediately ascended.  ‘There’s two rooms at the top; that to t’ left is all made ready, t’ other is mine,’ said he, reddening a little as he spoke.  Bell was busy undoing her bundle with trembling fingers.

‘Here,’ said she; ‘and oh, lad, here’s a bit o’ peppermint cake; he’s main and fond on it, and I catched sight on it by good luck just t’ last minute.’

Philip was gone, and the excitement of Bell and Sylvia flagged once more, and sank into wondering despondency.  Sylvia, however, roused herself enough to take off her mother’s wet clothes, and she took them timidly into the kitchen and arranged them before Phoebe’s fire.

Phoebe opened her lips once or twice to speak in remonstrance, and then, with an effort, gulped her words down; for her sympathy, like that of all the rest of the Monkshaven world, was in favour of Daniel Robson; and his daughter might place her dripping cloak this night wherever she would, for Phoebe.

Sylvia found her mother still sitting on the chair next the door, where she had first placed herself on entering the room.

‘I’ll gi’e you some tea, mother,’ said she, struck with the shrunken look of Bell’s face.

‘No, no’ said her mother.  ‘It’s not manners for t’ help oursel’s.’

‘I’m sure Philip would ha’ wished yo’ for to take it,’ said Sylvia, pouring out a cup.

Just then he returned, and something in his look, some dumb expression of delight at her occupation, made her blush and hesitate for an instant; but then she went on, and made a cup of tea ready, saying something a little incoherent all the time about her mother’s need of it.  After tea Bell Robson’s weariness became so extreme, that Philip and Sylvia urged her to go to bed.  She resisted a little, partly out of ‘manners,’ and partly because she kept