It might not have been a very appropriate text, but such as it was the words, ‘From him that would ask of thee turn not thou away,’ seemed the only source of strength that could have enabled her to go patiently through the next half-hour.  As it was, she unselfishly brought all her mind to bear upon the subject; admired this, thought and decided upon that, as one by one Philip showed her all his alterations and improvements.  Never was such a quiet little bit of unconscious and unrecognized heroism.  She really ended by such a conquest of self that she could absolutely sympathize with the proud expectant lover, and had quenched all envy of the beloved, in sympathy with the delight she imagined Sylvia must experience when she discovered all these proofs of Philip’s fond consideration and care.  But it was a great strain on the heart, that source of life; and when Hester returned into the parlour, after her deliberate survey of the house, she felt as weary and depressed in bodily strength as if she had gone through an illness of many days.  She sate down on the nearest chair, and felt as though she never could rise again.  Philip, joyous and content, stood near her talking.

‘And, Hester,’ said he, ’Sylvie has given me a message for thee—­ she says thou must be her bridesmaid—­she’ll have none other.’

‘I cannot,’ said Hester, with sudden sharpness.

‘Oh, yes, but yo’ must.  It wouldn’t be like my wedding if thou wasn’t there:  why I’ve looked upon thee as a sister iver since I came to lodge with thy mother.’

Hester shook her head.  Did her duty require her not to turn away from this asking, too?  Philip saw her reluctance, and, by intuition rather than reason, he knew that what she would not do for gaiety or pleasure she would consent to, if by so doing she could render any service to another.  So he went on.

’Besides, Sylvie and me has planned to go for our wedding jaunt to Robin Hood’s Bay.  I ha’ been to engage a shandry this very morn, before t’ shop was opened; and there’s no one to leave wi’ my aunt.  Th’ poor old body is sore crushed with sorrow; and is, as one may say, childish at times; she’s to come down here, that we may find her when we come back at night; and there’s niver a one she’ll come with so willing and so happy as with thee, Hester.  Sylvie and me has both said so.’

Hester looked up in his face with her grave honest eyes.

‘I cannot go to church wi’ thee, Philip; and thou must not ask me any further.  But I’ll go betimes to Haytersbank Farm, and I’ll do my best to make the old lady happy, and to follow out thy directions in bringing her here before nightfall.’

Philip was on the point of urging her afresh to go with them to church; but something in her eyes brought a thought across his mind, as transitory as a breath passes over a looking-glass, and he desisted from his entreaty, and put away his thought as a piece of vain coxcombry, insulting to Hester.  He passed rapidly on to all the careful directions rendered necessary by her compliance with the latter part of his request, coupling Sylvia’s name with his perpetually; so that Hester looked upon her as a happy girl, as eager in planning all the details of her marriage as though no heavy shameful sorrow had passed over her head not many months ago.