‘Thou knows nought about it,’ said Daniel.  ’Hold thy tongue next time till thou’s axed to speak, my wench.’

His sharp irritated way of speaking was so new to Sylvia, that the tears sprang to her eyes, and her lip quivered.  Philip saw it all, and yearned over her.  He plunged headlong into some other subject to try and divert attention from her; but Daniel was too ill at ease to talk much, and Bell was obliged to try and keep up the semblance of conversation, with an occasional word or two from Kester, who seemed instinctively to fall into her way of thinking, and to endeavour to keep the dark thought in the background.

Sylvia stole off to bed; more concerned at her father’s angry way of speaking than at the idea of his being amenable to law for what he had done; the one was a sharp present evil, the other something distant and unlikely.  Yet a dim terror of this latter evil hung over her, and once upstairs she threw herself on her bed and sobbed.  Philip heard her where he sate near the bottom of the short steep staircase, and at every sob the cords of love round his heart seemed tightened, and he felt as if he must there and then do something to console her.

But, instead, he sat on talking of nothings, a conversation in which Daniel joined with somewhat of surliness, while Bell, grave and anxious, kept wistfully looking from one to the other, desirous of gleaning some further information on the subject, which had begun to trouble her mind.  She hoped some chance would give her the opportunity of privately questioning Philip, but it seemed to be equally her husband’s wish to thwart any such intention of hers.  He remained in the house-place, till after Philip had left, although he was evidently so much fatigued as to give some very distinct, though unintentional, hints to his visitor to be gone.

At length the house-door was locked on Philip, and then Daniel prepared to go to bed.  Kester had left for his loft above the shippen more than an hour before.  Bell had still to rake the fire, and then she would follow her husband upstairs.

As she was scraping up the ashes, she heard, intermixed with the noise she was making, the sound of some one rapping gently at the window.  In her then frame of mind she started a little; but on looking round, she saw Kester’s face pressed against the glass, and, reassured, she softly opened the door.  There he stood in the dusk outer air, distinct against the gray darkness beyond, and in his hand something which she presently perceived was a pitchfork.

‘Missus!’ whispered he, ‘a’ve watched t’ maister t’ bed; an’ now a’d be greatly beholden to yo’ if yo’d let me just lay me down i’ t’ house-place.  A’d warrant niver a constable i’ a’ Monkshaven should get sight o’ t’ maister, an’ me below t’ keep ward.’

Bell shivered a little.

‘Nay, Kester,’ she said, patting her hand kindly on his shoulder; ‘there’s nought for t’ fear.  Thy master is not one for t’ hurt nobody; and I dunnot think they can harm him for setting yon poor chaps free, as t’ gang catched i’ their wicked trap.’