of everything that could make her a subject of remark.  So the poor afflicted people at Haytersbank knew little of Monkshaven news.  What little did come to their ears came through Dolly Reid, when she returned from selling the farm produce of the week; and often, indeed, even then she found Sylvia too much absorbed in other cares or thoughts to listen to her gossip.  So no one had ever named that Simpson was supposed to be dying till Philip began on the subject one evening.  Sylvia’s face suddenly flashed into glow and life.

‘He’s dying, is he? t’ earth is well rid on such a fellow!’

‘Eh, Sylvie, that’s a hard speech o’ thine!’ said Philip; ’it gives me but poor heart to ask a favour of thee!’

‘If it’s aught about Simpson,’ replied she, and then she interrupted herself.  ‘But say on; it were ill-mannered in me for t’ interrupt yo’.’

’Thou would be sorry to see him, I think, Sylvie.  He cannot get over the way, t’ folk met him, and pelted him when he came back fra’ York,—­and he’s weak and faint, and beside himself at times; and he’ll lie a dreaming, and a-fancying they’re all at him again, hooting, and yelling, and pelting him.’

’I’m glad on ‘t,’ said Sylvia; ‘it’s t’ best news I’ve heered for many a day,—­he, to turn again’ feyther, who gave him money fo t’ get a lodging that night, when he’d no place to go to.  It were his evidence as hung feyther; and he’s rightly punished for it now.’

‘For a’ that,—­and he’s done a vast o’ wrong beside, he’s dying now, Sylvie!’

‘Well! let him die—­it’s t’ best thing he could do!’

‘But he’s lying i’ such dree poverty,—­and niver a friend to go near him,—­niver a person to speak a kind word t’ him.’

‘It seems as yo’ve been speaking wi’ him, at any rate,’ said Sylvia, turning round on Philip.

‘Ay.  He sent for me by Nell Manning, th’ old beggar-woman, who sometimes goes in and makes his bed for him, poor wretch,—­he’s lying in t’ ruins of th’ cow-house of th’ Mariners’ Arms, Sylvie.’

‘Well!’ said she, in the same hard, dry tone.

‘And I went and fetched th’ parish doctor, for I thought he’d ha’ died before my face,—­he was so wan, and ashen-grey, so thin, too, his eyes seem pushed out of his bony face.’

’That last time—­feyther’s eyes were starting, wild-like, and as if he couldn’t meet ours, or bear the sight on our weeping.’

It was a bad look-out for Philip’s purpose; but after a pause he went bravely on.

‘He’s a poor dying creature, anyhow.  T’ doctor said so, and told him he hadn’t many hours, let alone days, to live.’

‘And he’d shrink fra’ dying wi’ a’ his sins on his head?’ said Sylvia, almost exultingly.

Philip shook his head.  ’He said this world had been too strong for him, and men too hard upon him; he could niver do any good here, and he thought he should, maybe, find folks i’ t’ next place more merciful.’