Kester looked at Sylvia, mutely imploring her to help him out in the dilemma of answering, but she was doing all she could to help crying.  Philip came to the rescue.

‘Aunt,’ said he, ‘the clock has stopped; can you tell me where t’ find t’ key, and I’ll wind it up.’

‘T’ key,’ said she, hurriedly, ‘t’ key, it’s behind th’ big Bible on yon shelf.  But I’d rayther thou wouldn’t touch it, lad; it’s t’ master’s work, and he distrusts folk meddling wi’ it.’

Day after day there was this constant reference to her dead husband.  In one sense it was a blessing; all the circumstances attendant on his sad and untimely end were swept out of her mind along with the recollection of the fact itself.  She referred to him as absent, and had always some plausible way of accounting for it, which satisfied her own mind; and, accordingly they fell into the habit of humouring her, and speaking of him as gone to Monkshaven, or afield, or wearied out, and taking a nap upstairs, as her fancy led her to believe for the moment.  But this forgetfulness, though happy for herself, was terrible for her child.  It was a constant renewing of Sylvia’s grief, while her mother could give her no sympathy, no help, or strength in any circumstances that arose out of this grief.  She was driven more and more upon Philip; his advice and his affection became daily more necessary to her.

Kester saw what would be the end of all this more clearly than Sylvia did herself; and, impotent to hinder what he feared and disliked, he grew more and more surly every day.  Yet he tried to labour hard and well for the interests of the family, as if they were bound up in his good management of the cattle and land.  He was out and about by the earliest dawn, working all day long with might and main.  He bought himself a pair of new spectacles, which might, he fancied, enable him to read the Farmer’s Complete Guide, his dead master’s vade-mecum.  But he had never learnt more than his capital letters, and had forgotten many of them; so the spectacles did him but little good.  Then he would take the book to Sylvia, and ask her to read to him the instructions he needed; instructions, be it noted, that he would formerly have despised as mere book-learning:  but his present sense of responsibility had made him humble.

Sylvia would find the place with all deliberation:  and putting her finger under the line to keep the exact place of the word she was reading, she would strive in good earnest to read out the directions given; but when every fourth word had to be spelt, it was rather hopeless work, especially as all these words were unintelligible to the open-mouthed listener, however intent he might be.  He had generally to fall back on his own experience; and, guided by that, things were not doing badly in his estimation, when, one day, Sylvia said to him, as they were in the hay-field, heaping up the hay into cocks with Dolly Reid’s assistance—­