’I mun go to him, Kester; thou’ll see that noane come in to us, when t’ doctors come out.’

She spoke in a soft, calm voice; and he, not knowing what she had heard, made some easy conditional promise.  Then those opposite to the cottage door fell back, for they could see the grave doctors coming out, and John Foster, graver, sadder still, following them.  Without a word to them,—­without a word even of inquiry—­which many outside thought and spoke of as strange—­white-faced, dry-eyed Sylvia slipped into the house out of their sight.

And the waves kept lapping on the shelving shore.

The room inside was dark, all except the little halo or circle of light made by a dip candle.  Widow Dobson had her back to the bed—­her bed—­on to which Philip had been borne in the hurry of terror as to whether he was alive or whether he was dead.  She was crying—­crying quietly, but the tears down-falling fast, as, with her back to the lowly bed, she was gathering up the dripping clothes cut off from the poor maimed body by the doctors’ orders.  She only shook her head as she saw Sylvia, spirit-like, steal in—­white, noiseless, and upborne from earth.

But noiseless as her step might be, he heard, he recognized, and with a sigh he turned his poor disfigured face to the wall, hiding it in the shadow.

He knew that she was by him; that she had knelt down by his bed; that she was kissing his hand, over which the languor of approaching death was stealing.  But no one spoke.

At length he said, his face still averted, speaking with an effort.

‘Little lassie, forgive me now!  I cannot live to see the morn!’

There was no answer, only a long miserable sigh, and he felt her soft cheek laid upon his hand, and the quiver that ran through her whole body.

‘I did thee a cruel wrong,’ he said, at length.  ’I see it now.  But I’m a dying man.  I think that God will forgive me—­and I’ve sinned against Him; try, lassie—­try, my Sylvie—­will not thou forgive me?’

He listened intently for a moment.  He heard through the open window the waves lapping on the shelving shore.  But there came no word from her; only that same long shivering, miserable sigh broke from her lips at length.

‘Child,’ said he, once more.  ‘I ha’ made thee my idol; and if I could live my life o’er again I would love my God more, and thee less; and then I shouldn’t ha’ sinned this sin against thee.  But speak one word of love to me—­one little word, that I may know I have thy pardon.’

‘Oh, Philip!  Philip!’ she moaned, thus adjured.

Then she lifted her head, and said,

’Them were wicked, wicked words, as I said; and a wicked vow as I vowed; and Lord God Almighty has ta’en me at my word.  I’m sorely punished, Philip, I am indeed.’

He pressed her hand, he stroked her cheek.  But he asked for yet another word.

’I did thee a wrong.  In my lying heart I forgot to do to thee as I would have had thee to do to me.  And I judged Kinraid in my heart.’