Now in general Philip was the least particular of men about meals; and to do Sylvia justice, she was scrupulously attentive to every household duty in which old Phoebe would allow her to meddle, and always careful to see after her husband’s comforts.  But Philip was too vexed at her absence to perceive the injustice of what he was saying, nor was he aware how Bell Robson had been attending to what he said.  But she was sadly discomfited by it, understanding just enough of the grievance in hand to think that her daughter was neglectful of those duties which she herself had always regarded as paramount to all others; nor could Hester convince her that Philip had not meant what he said; neither could she turn the poor old woman’s thoughts from the words which had caused her distress.

Presently Sylvia came in, bright and cheerful, although breathless with hurry.

‘Oh,’ said she, taking off her wet shawl, ’we’ve had to shelter from such a storm of rain, baby and me—­but see! she’s none the worse for it, as bonny as iver, bless her.’

Hester began some speech of admiration for the child in order to prevent Bell from delivering the lecture she felt sure was coming down on the unsuspecting Sylvia; but all in vain.

‘Philip’s been complaining on thee, Sylvie,’ said Bell, in the way in which she had spoken to her daughter when she was a little child; grave and severe in tone and look, more than in words.  ’I forget justly what about, but he spoke on thy neglecting him continual.  It’s not right, my lass, it’s not right; a woman should—­but my head’s very tired, and all I can think on to say is, it’s not right.’

‘Philip been complaining of me, and to mother!’ said Sylvia, ready to burst into tears, so grieved and angry was she.

‘No!’ said Hester, ’thy mother has taken it a little too strong; he were vexed like at his tea not being ready.’

Sylvia said no more, but the bright colour faded from her cheek, and the contraction of care returned to her brow.  She occupied herself with taking off her baby’s walking things.  Hester lingered, anxious to soothe and make peace; she was looking sorrowfully at Sylvia, when she saw tears dropping on the baby’s cloak, and then it seemed as if she must speak a word of comfort before going to the shop-work, where she knew she was expected by both Philip and Coulson.  She poured out a cup of tea, and coming close up to Sylvia, and kneeling down by her, she whispered,—­

‘Just take him this into t’ ware-room; it’ll put all to rights if thou’ll take it to him wi’ thy own hands.’

Sylvia looked up, and Hester then more fully saw how she had been crying.  She whispered in reply, for fear of disturbing her mother,—­

’I don’t mind anything but his speaking ill on me to mother.  I know I’m for iver trying and trying to be a good wife to him, an’ it’s very dull work; harder than yo’ think on, Hester,—­an’ I would ha’ been home for tea to-night only I was afeared of baby getting wet wi’ t’ storm o’ hail as we had down on t’ shore; and we sheltered under a rock.  It’s a weary coming home to this dark place, and to find my own mother set against me.’