fancying, poor woman, that somehow or other her husband might send for her.  But about seven o’clock Sylvia persuaded her to come upstairs.  Sylvia, too, bade Philip good-night, and his look followed the last wave of her dress as she disappeared up the stairs; then leaning his chin on his hand, he gazed at vacancy and thought deeply—­for how long he knew not, so intent was his mind on the chances of futurity.

He was aroused by Sylvia’s coming down-stairs into the sitting-room again.  He started up.

‘Mother is so shivery,’ said she.  ‘May I go in there,’ indicating the kitchen, ‘and make her a drop of gruel?’

‘Phoebe shall make it, not you,’ said Philip, eagerly preventing her, by going to the kitchen door and giving his orders.  When he turned round again, Sylvia was standing over the fire, leaning her head against the stone mantel-piece for the comparative coolness.  She did not speak at first, or take any notice of him.  He watched her furtively, and saw that she was crying, the tears running down her cheeks, and she too much absorbed in her thoughts to wipe them away with her apron.

While he was turning over in his mind what he could best say to comfort her (his heart, like hers, being almost too full for words), she suddenly looked him full in the face, saying,—­

‘Philip! won’t they soon let him go? what can they do to him?’ Her open lips trembled while awaiting his answer, the tears came up and filled her eyes.  It was just the question he had most dreaded; it led to the terror that possessed his own mind, but which he had hoped to keep out of hers.  He hesitated.  ‘Speak, lad!’ said she, impatiently, with a little passionate gesture.  ’I can see thou knows!’

He had only made it worse by consideration; he rushed blindfold at a reply.

‘He’s ta’en up for felony.’

‘Felony,’ said she.  ’There thou’re out; he’s in for letting yon men out; thou may call it rioting if thou’s a mind to set folks again’ him, but it’s too bad to cast such hard words at him as yon—­felony,’ she repeated, in a half-offended tone.

‘It’s what the lawyers call it,’ said Philip, sadly; ’it’s no word o’ mine.’

‘Lawyers is allays for making the worst o’ things,’ said she, a little pacified, ‘but folks shouldn’t allays believe them.’

‘It’s lawyers as has to judge i’ t’ long run.’

’Cannot the justices, Mr. Harter and them as is no lawyers, give him a sentence to-morrow, wi’out sending him to York?’

‘No!’ said Philip, shaking his head.  He went to the kitchen door and asked if the gruel was not ready, so anxious was he to stop the conversation at this point; but Phoebe, who held her young master in but little respect, scolded him for a stupid man, who thought, like all his sex, that gruel was to be made in a minute, whatever the fire was, and bade him come and make it for himself if he was in such a hurry.

He had to return discomfited to Sylvia, who meanwhile had arranged her thoughts ready to return to the charge.