‘I’m off i’ th’ morning; and sail for the north seas day after.’

He turned away, and began to whistle, as if he did not wish for any further conversation with his interrogator.  Philip, indeed, had nothing more to say to him:  he had learned all he wanted to know.

‘I’d like to bid good-by to Sylvie.  Is she at home?’ he asked of her father.

‘A’m thinking thou’ll not find her.  She’ll be off to Yesterbarrow t’ see if she’d get a settin’ o’ their eggs; her grey speckled hen is cluckin’, and nought ’ll serve our Sylvia but their eggs to set her upon.  But, for a’ that, she mayn’t be gone yet.  Best go on and see for thysel’.’

So they parted; but Philip had not gone many steps before his uncle called him back, Kinraid slowly loitering on meanwhile.  Robson was fumbling among some dirty papers he had in an old leather case, which he had produced out of his pocket.

‘Fact is, Philip, t’ pleugh’s in a bad way, gearin’ and a’, an’ folk is talkin’ on a new kind o’ mak’; and if thou’s bound for York—–­’

‘I’m not going by York; I’m going by a Newcastle smack.’

‘Newcassel—­Newcassel—­it’s pretty much t’ same.  Here, lad, thou can read print easy; it’s a bit as was cut out on a papper; there’s Newcassel, and York, and Durham, and a vast more towns named, wheere folk can learn a’ about t’ new mak’ o’ pleugh.’

‘I see,’ said Philip:  ’"Robinson, Side, Newcastle, can give all requisite information."’

‘Ay, ay,’ said Robson; ‘thou’s hit t’ marrow on t’ matter.  Now, if thou’rt i’ Newcassel, thou can learn all about it; thou’rt little better nor a woman, for sure, bein’ mainly acquaint wi’ ribbons, but they’ll tell thee—­they’ll tell thee, lad; and write down what they sayn, and what’s to be t’ price, and look sharp as to what kind o’ folk they are as sells ’em, an’ write and let me know.  Thou’ll be i’ Newcassel to-morrow, may-be?  Well, then, I’ll reckon to hear fro’ thee in a week, or, mayhap, less,—­for t’ land is backward, and I’d like to know about t’ pleughs.  I’d a month’s mind to write to Brunton, as married Molly Corney, but writin’ is more i’ thy way an’ t’ parson’s nor mine; and if thou sells ribbons, Brunton sells cheese, and that’s no better.’

Philip promised to do his best, and to write word to Robson, who, satisfied with his willingness to undertake the commission, bade him go on and see if he could not find the lass.  Her father was right in saying that she might not have set out for Yesterbarrow.  She had talked about it to Kinraid and her father in order to cover her regret at her lover’s accompanying her father to see some new kind of harpoon about which the latter had spoken.  But as soon as they had left the house, and she had covertly watched them up the brow in the field, she sate down to meditate and dream about her great happiness in being beloved by her hero, Charley Kinraid.  No gloomy dread of his long summer’s absence; no fear of the