But across all this relenting came the shadow of her vow—­like the chill of a great cloud passing over a sunny plain.  How should she decide? what would be her duty, if he came again, and once more called her ‘wife’?  She shrank from such a possibility with all the weakness and superstition of her nature; and this it was which made her strengthen herself with the re-utterance of unforgiving words; and shun all recurrence to the subject on the rare occasion when Hester had tried to bring it back, with a hope of softening the heart which to her appeared altogether hardened on this one point.

Now, on this bright summer evening, while Hester had gone down to the quay-side, Sylvia stood with her out-of-door things on in the parlour, rather impatiently watching the sky, full of hurrying clouds, and flushing with the warm tints of the approaching sunset.  She could not leave Alice:  the old woman had grown so infirm that she was never left by her daughter and Sylvia at the same time; yet Sylvia had to fetch her little girl from the New Town, where she had been to her supper at Jeremiah Foster’s.  Hester had said that she should not be away more than a quarter of an hour; and Hester was generally so punctual that any failure of hers, in this respect, appeared almost in the light of an injury on those who had learnt to rely upon her.  Sylvia wanted to go and see widow Dobson, and learn when Kester might be expected home.  His two months were long past; and Sylvia had heard through the Fosters of some suitable and profitable employment for him, of which she thought he would be glad to know as soon as possible.  It was now some time since she had been able to get so far as across the bridge; and, for aught she knew, Kester might already be come back from his expedition to the Cheviots.  Kester was come back.  Scarce five minutes had elapsed after these thoughts had passed through her mind before his hasty hand lifted the latch of the kitchen-door, his hurried steps brought him face to face with her.  The smile of greeting was arrested on her lips by one look at him:  his eyes staring wide, the expression on his face wild, and yet pitiful.

‘That’s reet,’ said he, seeing that her things were already on.  ‘Thou’re wanted sore.  Come along.’

‘Oh! dear God! my child!’ cried Sylvia, clutching at the chair near her; but recovering her eddying senses with the strong fact before her that whatever the terror was, she was needed to combat it.

‘Ay; thy child!’ said Kester, taking her almost roughly by the arm, and drawing her away with him out through the open doors on to the quay-side.

‘Tell me!’ said Sylvia, faintly, ‘is she dead?’

‘She’s safe now,’ said Kester.  ’It’s not her—­it’s him as saved her as needs yo’, if iver husband needed a wife.’

‘He?—­who?  O Philip!  Philip! is it yo’ at last?’

Unheeding what spectators might see her movements, she threw up her arms and staggered against the parapet of the bridge they were then crossing.