She hurried about in a way which Sylvia wondered to see; till at length she fancied that perhaps her mother did so to drive away thought.  Every place was cleaned; there was scarce time allowed for breakfast; till at last, long before mid-day, all the work was done, and the two sat down to their spinning-wheels.  Sylvia’s spirits sank lower and lower at each speech of her mother’s, from whose mind all fear seemed to have disappeared, leaving only a strange restless kind of excitement.

‘It’s time for t’ potatoes,’ said Bell, after her wool had snapped many a time from her uneven tread.

‘Mother,’ said Sylvia, ‘it’s but just gone ten!’

’Put ’em on,’ said Bell, without attending to the full meaning of her daughter’s words.  ‘It’ll, maybe, hasten t’ day on if we get dinner done betimes.’

‘But Kester is in t’ Far Acre field, and he’ll not be home till noon.’

This seemed to settle matters for a while; but then Bell pushed her wheel away, and began searching for her hood and cloak.  Sylvia found them for her, and then asked sadly—­

’What does ta want ’em for, mother?’

‘I’ll go up t’ brow and through t’ field, and just have a look down t’ lane.’

‘I’ll go wi’ thee,’ said Sylvia, feeling all the time the uselessness of any looking for intelligence from York so early in the day.  Very patiently did she wait by her mother’s side during the long half-hour which Bell spent in gazing down the road for those who never came.

When they got home Sylvia put the potatoes on to boil; but when dinner was ready and the three were seated at the dresser, Bell pushed her plate away from her, saying it was so long after dinner time that she was past eating.  Kester would have said something about its being only half-past twelve, but Sylvia gave him a look beseeching silence, and he went on with his dinner without a word, only brushing away the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand from time to time.

‘A’ll noane go far fra’ home t’ rest o’ t’ day,’ said he, in a whisper to Sylvia, as he went out.

‘Will this day niver come to an end?’ cried Bell, plaintively.

’Oh, mother! it’ll come to an end some time, never fear.  I’ve heerd say—­

“Be the day weary or be the day long,
At length it ringeth to even-song."’

‘To even-song—­to even-song,’ repeated Bell.  ’D’ye think now that even-song means death, Sylvie?’

‘I cannot tell—­I cannot bear it.  Mother,’ said Sylvia, in despair, ’I’ll make some clap-bread:  that’s a heavy job, and will while away t’ afternoon.’

‘Ay, do!’ replied the mother.  ’He’ll like it fresh—­he’ll like it fresh.’

Murmuring and talking to herself, she fell into a doze, from which Sylvia was careful not to disturb her.