He was still lodging with his sister, widow Dobson, working at odd jobs, some of which took him into the country for weeks at a time.  But on his returns to Monkshaven he was sure to come and see her and the little Bella; indeed, when his employment was in the immediate neighbourhood of the town, he never allowed a week to pass away without a visit.

There was not much conversation between him and Sylvia at such times.  They skimmed over the surface of the small events in which both took an interest; only now and then a sudden glance, a checked speech, told each that there were deeps not forgotten, although they were never mentioned.

Twice Sylvia—­below her breath—­had asked Kester, just as she was holding the door open for his departure, if anything had ever been heard of Kinraid since his one night’s visit to Monkshaven:  each time (and there was an interval of some months between the inquiries) the answer had been simply, no.

To no one else would Sylvia ever have named his name.  But indeed she had not the chance, had she wished it ever so much, of asking any questions about him from any one likely to know.  The Corneys had left Moss Brow at Martinmas, and gone many miles away towards Horncastle.  Bessy Corney, it is true was married and left behind in the neighbourhood; but with her Sylvia had never been intimate; and what girlish friendship there might have been between them had cooled very much at the time of Kinraid’s supposed death three years before.

One day before Christmas in this year, 1798, Sylvia was called into the shop by Coulson, who, with his assistant, was busy undoing the bales of winter goods supplied to them from the West Riding, and other places.  He was looking at a fine Irish poplin dress-piece when Sylvia answered to his call.

‘Here! do you know this again?’ asked he, in the cheerful tone of one sure of giving pleasure.

‘No! have I iver seen it afore?’

‘Not this, but one for all t’ world like it.’

She did not rouse up to much interest, but looked at it as if trying to recollect where she could have seen its like.

‘My missus had one on at th’ party at John Foster’s last March, and yo’ admired it a deal.  And Philip, he thought o’ nothing but how he could get yo’ just such another, and he set a vast o’ folk agait for to meet wi’ its marrow; and what he did just the very day afore he went away so mysterious was to write through Dawson Brothers, o’ Wakefield, to Dublin, and order that one should be woven for yo’.  Jemima had to cut a bit off hers for to give him t’ exact colour.’

Sylvia did not say anything but that it was very pretty, in a low voice, and then she quickly left the shop, much to Coulson’s displeasure.

All the afternoon she was unusually quiet and depressed.

Alice Rose, sitting helpless in her chair, watched her with keen eyes.

At length, after one of Sylvia’s deep, unconscious sighs, the old woman spoke: