Coulson immediately gave the promise.  Philip’s assent came lagging.  He had thought of Sylvia living, almost as much as of the dead mother, whose last words had been a committal of her child to the Father of the friendless; and now that a short delay was placed between the sight of the cup and his enjoyment of it, there was an impatient chafing in the mind of the composed and self-restrained Philip; and then repentance quick as lightning effaced the feeling, and he pledged himself to the secrecy which was enjoined.  Some few more details as to their mode of procedure—­of verifying the Fosters’ statements, which to the younger men seemed a perfectly unnecessary piece of business—­of probable journeys and introductions, and then farewell was bidden, and Hepburn and Coulson were in the passage donning their wraps, and rather to their indignation being assisted therein by Martha, who was accustomed to the office with her own master.  Suddenly they were recalled into the parlour.

John Foster was fumbling with the papers a little nervously:  Jeremiah spoke—­

’We have not thought it necessary to commend Hester Rose to you; if she had been a lad she would have had a third o’ the business along wi’ yo’.  Being a woman, it’s ill troubling her with a partnership; better give her a fixed salary till such time as she marries.’

He looked a little knowingly and curiously at the faces of the young men he addressed.  William Coulson seemed sheepish and uncomfortable, but said nothing, leaving it as usual to Philip to be spokesman.

‘If we hadn’t cared for Hester for hersel’, master, we should ha’ cared for her as being forespoken by yo’.  Yo’ and Master John shall fix what we ought t’ pay her; and I think I may make bold to say that, as our income rises, hers shall too—­eh, Coulson?’ (a sound of assent quite distinct enough); ’for we both look on her as a sister and on Alice like a mother, as I told her only this very day.’

CHAPTER XV

A DIFFICULT QUESTION

Philip went to bed with that kind of humble penitent gratitude in his heart, which we sometimes feel after a sudden revulsion of feeling from despondency to hope.  The night before it seemed as if all events were so arranged as to thwart him in his dearest wishes; he felt now as if his discontent and repining, not twenty-four hours before, had been almost impious, so great was the change in his circumstances for the better.  Now all seemed promising for the fulfilment of what he most desired.  He was almost convinced that he was mistaken in thinking that Kinraid had had anything more than a sailor’s admiration for a pretty girl with regard to Sylvia; at any rate, he was going away to-morrow, in all probability not to return for another year (for Greenland ships left for the northern seas as soon as there was a chance of the ice being broken up), and ere then he himself might speak out openly, laying before her parents all his fortunate prospects, and before her all his deep passionate love.