‘Sylvie!  I’m going away; say good-by.’  No answer.  Not a sound heard.  ‘Sylvie!’ (a little louder, and less hoarsely spoken).  There was no reply.  ’Sylvie!  I shall be a long time away; perhaps I may niver come back at all’; here he bitterly thought of an unregarded death.  ‘Say good-by.’  No answer.  He waited patiently.  Can she be wearied out, and gone to sleep, he wondered.  Yet once again—­’Good-by, Sylvie, and God bless yo’!  I’m sorry I vexed yo’.’

No reply.

With a heavy, heavy heart he creaked down the stairs, felt for his cap, and left the house.

‘She’s warned, any way,’ thought he.  Just at that moment the little casement window of Sylvia’s room was opened, and she said—­

‘Good-by, Philip!’

The window was shut again as soon as the words were spoken.  Philip knew the uselessness of remaining; the need for his departure; and yet he stood still for a little time like one entranced, as if his will had lost all power to compel him to leave the place.  Those two words of hers, which two hours before would have been so far beneath his aspirations, had now power to re-light hope, to quench reproach or blame.

‘She’s but a young lassie,’ said he to himself; ‘an’ Kinraid has been playing wi’ her, as such as he can’t help doing, once they get among the women.  An’ I came down sudden on her about Annie Coulson, and touched her pride.  Maybe, too, it were ill advised to tell her how her mother was feared for her.  I couldn’t ha’ left the place to-morrow if he’d been biding here; but he’s off for half a year or so, and I’ll be home again as soon as iver I can.  In half a year such as he forgets, if iver he’s thought serious about her; but in a’ my lifetime, if I live to fourscore, I can niver forget.  God bless her for saying, “Good-by, Philip."’ He repeated the words aloud in fond mimicry of her tones:  ‘Good-by, Philip.’

CHAPTER XVIII

EDDY IN LOVE’S CURRENT

The next morning shone bright and clear, if ever a March morning did.  The beguiling month was coming in like a lamb, with whatever storms it might go raging out.  It was long since Philip had tasted the freshness of the early air on the shore, or in the country, as his employment at the shop detained him in Monkshaven till the evening.  And as he turned down the quays (or staithes) on the north side of the river, towards the shore, and met the fresh sea-breeze blowing right in his face, it was impossible not to feel bright and elastic.  With his knapsack slung over his shoulder, he was prepared for a good stretch towards Hartlepool, whence a coach would take him to Newcastle before night.  For seven or eight miles the level sands were as short and far more agreeable a road than the up and down land-ways.  Philip walked on pretty briskly, unconsciously enjoying the sunny landscape before him; the crisp curling waves rushing almost up to his feet, on his right hand,