‘He’ll meet feyther theere,’ said Sylvia, still hard and bitter.

’He’s a poor ignorant creature, and doesn’t seem to know rightly who he’s like to meet; only he seems glad to get away fra’ Monkshaven folks; he were really hurt, I am afeared, that night, Sylvie,—­and he speaks as if he’d had hard times of it ever since he were a child,—­and he talks as if he were really grieved for t’ part t’ lawyers made him take at th’ trial,—­they made him speak, against his will, he says.’

‘Couldn’t he ha’ bitten his tongue out?’ asked Sylvia.  ’It’s fine talking o’ sorrow when the thing is done!’

’Well, anyhow he’s sorry now; and he’s not long for to live.  And, Sylvie, he bid me ask thee, if, for the sake of all that is dear to thee both here, and i’ th’ world to come, thou’d go wi’ me, and just say to him that thou forgives him his part that day.’

’He sent thee on that errand, did he?  And thou could come and ask me?  I’ve a mind to break it off for iver wi’ thee, Philip.’  She kept gasping, as if she could not say any more.  Philip watched and waited till her breath came, his own half choked.

’Thee and me was niver meant to go together.  It’s not in me to forgive,—­I sometimes think it’s not in me to forget.  I wonder, Philip, if thy feyther had done a kind deed—­and a right deed—­and a merciful deed—­and some one as he’d been good to, even i’ t’ midst of his just anger, had gone and let on about him to th’ judge, as was trying to hang him,—­and had getten him hanged,—­hanged dead, so that his wife were a widow, and his child fatherless for ivermore,—­I wonder if thy veins would run milk and water, so that thou could go and make friends, and speak soft wi’ him as had caused thy feyther’s death?’

‘It’s said in t’ Bible, Sylvie, that we’re to forgive.’

’Ay, there’s some things as I know I niver forgive; and there’s others as I can’t—­and I won’t, either.’

‘But, Sylvie, yo’ pray to be forgiven your trespasses, as you forgive them as trespass against you.’

’Well, if I’m to be taken at my word, I’ll noane pray at all, that’s all.  It’s well enough for them as has but little to forgive to use them words; and I don’t reckon it’s kind, or pretty behaved in yo’, Philip, to bring up Scripture again’ me.  Thou may go about thy business.’

’Thou’rt vexed with me, Sylvie; and I’m not meaning but that it would go hard with thee to forgive him; but I think it would be right and Christian-like i’ thee, and that thou’d find thy comfort in thinking on it after.  If thou’d only go, and see his wistful eyes—­I think they’d plead wi’ thee more than his words, or mine either.’

’I tell thee my flesh and blood wasn’t made for forgiving and forgetting.  Once for all, thou must take my word.  When I love I love, and when I hate I hate; and him as has done hard to me, or to mine, I may keep fra’ striking or murdering, but I’ll niver forgive.  I should be just a monster, fit to be shown at a fair, if I could forgive him as got feyther hanged.’