’Kester—­I didn’t tell thee—­there were a letter from Measter Hall, Lord Malton’s steward, that came last night and that Philip read me.’

She stopped for a moment.

‘Ay, lass!  Philip read it thee, and whatten might it say?’

’Only that he had an offer for Haytersbank Farm, and would set mother free to go as soon as t’ crops was off t’ ground.’

She sighed a little as she said this.

“‘Only!” sayst ta?  Whatten business has he for to go an’ offer to let t’ farm afore iver he were told as yo’ wished to leave it?’ observed Kester, in high dudgeon.

‘Oh!’ replied Sylvia, throwing down her rake, as if weary of life.  ‘What could we do wi’ t’ farm and land?  If it were all dairy I might ha’ done, but wi’ so much on it arable.’

’And if ‘tis arable is not I allays to t’ fore?’

‘Oh, man, dunnot find fault wi’ me!  I’m just fain to lie down and die, if it were not for mother.’

’Ay! thy mother will be sore unsettled if thou’s for quitting Haytersbank,’ said merciless Kester.

’I cannot help it; I cannot help it!  What can I do?  It would take two pair o’ men’s hands to keep t’ land up as Measter Hall likes it; and beside——­’

‘Beside what?’ said Kester, looking up at her with his sudden odd look, one eye shut, the other open:  there she stood, her two hands clasped tight together, her eyes filling with tears, her face pale and sad.  ‘Beside what?’ he asked again, sharply.

‘T’ answer’s sent to Measter Hall—­Philip wrote it last night; so there’s no use planning and fretting, it were done for t’ best, and mun be done.’  She stooped and picked up her rake, and began tossing the hay with energy, the tears streaming down her cheeks unheeded.  It was Kester’s turn to throw down his rake.  She took no notice, he did not feel sure that she had observed his action.  He began to walk towards the field-gate; this movement did catch her eye, for in a minute her hand was on his arm, and she was stooping forward to look into his face.  It was working and twitching with emotion.  ’Kester! oh, man! speak out, but dunnot leave me a this-ns.  What could I ha’ done?  Mother is gone dateless wi’ sorrow, and I am but a young lass, i’ years I mean; for I’m old enough wi’ weeping.’

‘I’d ha’ put up for t’ farm mysel’, sooner than had thee turned out,’ said Kester, in a low voice; then working himself up into a passion, as a new suspicion crossed his mind, he added, ‘An’ what for didn’t yo’ tell me on t’ letter?  Yo’ were in a mighty hurry to settle it a’, and get rid on t’ oud place.’

’Measter Hall had sent a notice to quit on Midsummer day; but Philip had answered it hisself.  Thou knows I’m not good at reading writing, ‘special when a letter’s full o’ long words, and Philip had ta’en it in hand to answer.’

‘Wi’out asking thee?’

Sylvia went on without minding the interruption.

‘And Measter Hall makes a good offer, for t’ man as is going to come in will take t’ stock and a’ t’ implements; and if mother—­if we—­if I—­like, th’ furniture and a’——­’