Once only Kester ventured to speak to Sylvia on the subject of Philip.  She had followed her cousin to the field just in front of their house, just outside the porch, to ask him some question she dared not put in her mother’s presence—­(Bell, indeed, in her anxiety, usually absorbed all the questions when Philip came)—­and stood, after Philip had bid her good-by, hardly thinking about him at all, but looking unconsciously after him as he ascended the brow; and at the top he had turned to take a last glance at the place his love inhabited, and, seeing her, he had waved his hat in gratified farewell.  She, meanwhile, was roused from far other thoughts than of him, and of his now acknowledged love, by the motion against the sky, and was turning back into the house when she heard Kester’s low hoarse call, and saw him standing at the shippen door.

‘Come hither, wench,’ said he, indignantly; ’is this a time for courtin’?’

‘Courting?’ said she, drawing up her head, and looking back at him with proud defiance.

‘Ay, courtin’! what other mak’ o’ thing is’t when thou’s gazin’ after yon meddlesome chap, as if thou’d send thy eyes after him, and he making marlocks back at thee?  It’s what we ca’ed courtin’ i’ my young days anyhow.  And it’s noane a time for a wench to go courtin’ when her feyther’s i’ prison,’ said he, with a consciousness as he uttered these last words that he was cruel and unjust and going too far, yet carried on to say them by his hot jealousy against Philip.

Sylvia continued looking at him without speaking:  she was too much offended for expression.

‘Thou may glower an’ thou may look, lass,’ said he, ’but a’d thought better on thee.  It’s like last week thy last sweetheart were drowned; but thou’s not one to waste time i’ rememberin’ them as is gone—­if, indeed, thou iver cared a button for yon Kinraid—­if it wasn’t a make-believe.’

Her lips were contracted and drawn up, showing her small glittering teeth, which were scarcely apart as she breathed out—­

’Thou thinks so, does thou, that I’ve forgetten him?  Thou’d better have a care o’ thy tongue.’

Then, as if fearful that her self-command might give way, she turned into the house; and going through the kitchen like a blind person, she went up to her now unused chamber, and threw herself, face downwards, flat on her bed, almost smothering herself.

Ever since Daniel’s committal, the decay that had imperceptibly begun in his wife’s bodily and mental strength during her illness of the previous winter, had been making quicker progress.  She lost her reticence of speech, and often talked to herself.  She had not so much forethought as of old; slight differences, it is true, but which, with some others of the same description, gave foundation for the homely expression which some now applied to Bell, ’She’ll never be t’ same woman again.

This afternoon she had cried herself to sleep in her chair after Philip’s departure.  She had not heard Sylvia’s sweeping passage through the kitchen; but half an hour afterwards she was startled up by Kester’s abrupt entry.