‘She’s a sad spoilt little puss!’ said Sylvia, holding out her arms to the child, who ran into them, and began patting her mother’s cheeks, and pulling at the soft brown curls tucked away beneath the matronly cap.  ‘Mammy spoils her, and Hester spoils her——­’

‘Granny Rose doesn’t spoil me,’ said the child, with quick, intelligent discrimination, interrupting her mother’s list.

‘No; but Jeremiah Foster does above a bit.  He’ll come in fro’ t’ Bank, Kester, and ask for her, a’most ivery day.  And he’ll bring her things in his pocket; and she’s so fause, she allays goes straight to peep in, and then he shifts t’ apple or t’ toy into another.  Eh! but she’s a little fause one,’—­half devouring the child with her kisses.  ’And he comes and takes her a walk oftentimes, and he goes as slow as if he were quite an old man, to keep pace wi’ Bella’s steps.  I often run upstairs and watch ’em out o’ t’ window; he doesn’t care to have me with ’em, he’s so fain t’ have t’ child all to hisself.’

‘She’s a bonny un, for sure,’ said Kester; ’but not so pretty as thou was, Sylvie.  A’ve niver tell’d thee what a come for tho’, and it’s about time for me t’ be goin’.  A’m off to t’ Cheviots to-morrow morn t’ fetch home some sheep as Jonas Blundell has purchased.  It’ll be a job o’ better nor two months a reckon.’

‘It’ll be a nice time o’ year,’ said Sylvia, a little surprised at Kester’s evident discouragement at the prospect of the journey or absence; he had often been away from Monkshaven for a longer time without seeming to care so much about it.

‘Well, yo’ see it’s a bit hard upon me for t’ leave my sister—­she as is t’ widow-woman, wheere a put up when a’m at home.  Things is main an’ dear; four-pound loaves is at sixteenpence; an’ there’s a deal o’ talk on a famine i’ t’ land; an’ whaten a paid for my victual an’ t’ bed i’ t’ lean-to helped t’ oud woman a bit,—­an’ she’s sadly down i’ t’ mouth, for she cannot hear on a lodger for t’ tak’ my place, for a’ she’s moved o’er to t’ other side o’ t’ bridge for t’ be nearer t’ new buildings, an’ t’ grand new walk they’re makin’ round t’ cliffs, thinkin’ she’d be likelier t’ pick up a labourer as would be glad on a bed near his work.  A’d ha’ liked to ha’ set her agait wi’ a ‘sponsible lodger afore a’d ha’ left, for she’s just so soft-hearted, any scamp may put upon her if he nobbut gets houd on her blind side.’

‘Can I help her?’ said Sylvia, in her eager way.  ’I should be so glad; and I’ve a deal of money by me—–­’

‘Nay, my lass,’ said Kester, ’thou munnot go off so fast; it were just what I were feared on i’ tellin’ thee.  I’ve left her a bit o’ money, and I’ll mak’ shift to send her more; it’s just a kind word, t’ keep up her heart when I’m gone, as I want.  If thou’d step in and see her fra’ time to time, and cheer her up a bit wi’ talkin’ to her on me, I’d tak’ it very kind, and I’d go off wi’ a lighter heart.’

‘Then I’m sure I’ll do it for yo’, Kester.  I niver justly feel like mysel’ when yo’re away, for I’m lonesome enough at times.  She and I will talk a’ t’ better about yo’ for both on us grieving after yo’.’