‘Kinraid went away from this here place t’ join his ship.  An’ he niver joined it no more; an’ t’ captain an’ all his friends at Newcassel as iver were, made search for him, on board t’ king’s ships.  That’s more nor fifteen month ago, an’ nought has iver been heerd on him by any man.  That’s what’s to be said on one side o’ t’ matter.  Then on t’ other there’s this as is known.  His hat were cast up by t’ sea wi’ a ribbon in it, as there’s reason t’ think as he’d not ha’ parted wi’ so quick if he’d had his own will.’

‘But yo’ said as he might ha’ been carried off by t’ gang—­yo’ did, Kester, tho’ now yo’re a’ for t’ other side.’

‘My lass, a’d fain have him alive, an’ a dunnot fancy Philip for thy husband; but it’s a serious judgment as thou’s put me on, an’ a’m trying it fair.  There’s allays one chance i’ a thousand as he’s alive, for no man iver saw him dead.  But t’ gang were noane about Monkshaven then:  there were niver a tender on t’ coast nearer than Shields, an’ those theere were searched.’

He did not say any more, but turned back into the field, and took up his hay-making again.

Sylvia stood quite still, thinking, and wistfully longing for some kind of certainty.

Kester came up to her.

’Sylvie, thou knows Philip paid me back my money, and it were eight pound fifteen and three-pence; and t’ hay and stock ’ll sell for summat above t’ rent; and a’ve a sister as is a decent widow-woman, tho’ but badly off, livin’ at Dale End; and if thee and thy mother ‘ll go live wi’ her, a’ll give thee well on to all a can earn, and it’ll be a matter o’ five shilling a week.  But dunnot go and marry a man as thou’s noane taken wi’, and another as is most like for t’ be dead, but who, mebbe, is alive, havin’ a pull on thy heart.’

Sylvia began to cry as if her heart was broken.  She had promised herself more fully to Philip the night before than she had told Kester; and, with some pains and much patience, her cousin, her lover, alas! her future husband, had made the fact clear to the bewildered mind of her poor mother, who had all day long shown that her mind and heart were full of the subject, and that the contemplation of it was giving her as much peace as she could ever know.  And now Kester’s words came to call up echoes in the poor girl’s heart.  Just as she was in this miserable state, wishing that the grave lay open before her, and that she could lie down, and be covered up by the soft green turf from all the bitter sorrows and carking cares and weary bewilderments of this life; wishing that her father was alive, that Charley was once more here; that she had not repeated the solemn words by which she had promised herself to Philip only the very evening before, she heard a soft, low whistle, and, looking round unconsciously, there was her lover and affianced husband, leaning on the gate, and gazing into the field with passionate eyes, devouring the fair face and figure of her, his future wife.