cold, glittering icebergs bearing mercilessly down on the Urania, nor shuddering anticipation of the dark waves of evil import, crossed her mind.  He loved her, and that was enough.  Her eyes looked, trance-like, into a dim, glorious future of life; her lips, still warm and reddened by his kiss, were just parted in a happy smile, when she was startled by the sound of an approaching footstep—­a footstep quite familiar enough for her to recognize it, and which was unwelcome now, as disturbing her in the one blessed subject of thought in which alone she cared to indulge.

‘Well, Philip! an’ what brings yo’ here?’ was her rather ungracious greeting.

‘Why, Sylvie, are yo’ sorry to see me?’ asked Philip, reproachfully.  But she turned it off with assumed lightness.

‘Oh, yes,’ said she.  ‘I’ve been wanting yo’ this week past wi’ t’ match to my blue ribbon yo’ said yo’d get and bring me next time yo’ came.’

‘I’ve forgotten it, Sylvie.  It’s clean gone out of my mind,’ said Philip, with true regret.  ‘But I’ve had a deal to think on,’ he continued, penitently, as if anxious to be forgiven.  Sylvia did not want his penitence, did not care for her ribbon, was troubled by his earnestness of manner—­but he knew nothing of all that; he only knew that she whom he loved had asked him to do something for her, and he had neglected it; so, anxious to be excused and forgiven, he went on with the apology she cared not to hear.

If she had been less occupied with her own affairs, less engrossed with deep feeling, she would have reproached him, if only in jest, for his carelessness.  As it was, she scarcely took in the sense of his words.

’You see, Sylvie, I’ve had a deal to think on; before long I intend telling yo’ all about it; just now I’m not free to do it.  And when a man’s mind is full o’ business, most particular when it’s other folk’s as is trusted to him, he seems to lose count on the very things he’d most care for at another time.’  He paused a little.

Sylvia’s galloping thoughts were pulled suddenly up by his silence; she felt that he wanted her to say something, but she could think of nothing besides an ambignous—­

‘Well?’

‘And I’m off to London i’ t’ morning,’ added he, a little wistfully, almost as if beseeching her to show or express some sorrow at a journey, the very destination of which showed that he would be absent for some time.

‘To Lunnon!’ said she, with some surprise.  ‘Yo’re niver thinking o’ going to live theere, for sure!’

Surprise, and curiosity, and wonder; nothing more, as Philip’s instinct told him.  But he reasoned that first correct impression away with ingenious sophistry.

’Not to live there:  only to stay for some time.  I shall be back, I reckon, in a month or so.’

‘Oh! that’s nought of a going away,’ said she, rather petulantly.  ‘Them as goes to t’ Greenland seas has to bide away for six months and more,’ and she sighed.