One day—­it was in the spring of 1798—­Hester was engaged to stay to tea with the Hepburns, in order that after that early meal she might set to again in helping Philip and Coulson to pack away the winter cloths and flannels, for which there was no longer any use.  The tea-time was half-past four; about four o’clock a heavy April shower came on, the hail pattering against the window-panes so as to awaken Mrs. Robson from her afternoon’s nap.  She came down the corkscrew stairs, and found Phoebe in the parlour arranging the tea-things.

Phoebe and Mrs. Robson were better friends than Phoebe and her young mistress; and so they began to talk a little together in a comfortable, familiar way.  Once or twice Philip looked in, as if he would be glad to see the tea-table in readiness; and then Phoebe would put on a spurt of busy bustle, which ceased almost as soon as his back was turned, so eager was she to obtain Mrs. Robson’s sympathy in some little dispute that had occurred between her and the nurse-maid.  The latter had misappropriated some hot water, prepared and required by Phoebe, to the washing of the baby’s clothes; it was a long story, and would have tired the patience of any one in full possession of their senses; but the details were just within poor Bell’s comprehension, and she was listening with the greatest sympathy.  Both the women were unaware of the lapse of time; but it was of consequence to Philip, as the extra labour was not to be begun until after tea, and the daylight hours were precious.

At a quarter to five Hester and he came in, and then Phoebe began to hurry.  Hester went up to sit by Bell and talk to her.  Philip spoke to Phoebe in the familiar words of country-folk.  Indeed, until his marriage, Phoebe had always called him by his Christian name, and had found it very difficult to change it into ‘master.’

‘Where’s Sylvie?’ said he.

‘Gone out wi’ t’ babby,’ replied Phoebe.

‘Why can’t Nancy carry it out?’ asked Philip.

It was touching on the old grievance:  he was tired, and he spoke with sharp annoyance.  Phoebe might easily have told him the real state of the case; Nancy was busy at her washing, which would have been reason enough.  But the nursemaid had vexed her, and she did not like Philip’s sharpness, so she only said,—­

‘It’s noane o’ my business; it’s yo’ t’ look after yo’r own wife and child; but yo’r but a lad after a’.’

This was not conciliatory speech, and just put the last stroke to Philip’s fit of ill-temper.

‘I’m not for my tea to-night,’ said he, to Hester, when all was ready.  ’Sylvie’s not here, and nothing is nice, or as it should be.  I’ll go and set to on t’ stock-taking.  Don’t yo’ hurry, Hester; stop and chat a bit with th’ old lady.’

‘Nay, Philip,’ said Hester, ’thou’s sadly tired; just take this cup o’ tea; Sylvia ‘ll be grieved if yo’ haven’t something.’

‘Sylvia doesn’t care whether I’m full or fasting,’ replied he, impatiently putting aside the cup.  ‘If she did she’d ha’ taken care to be in, and ha’ seen to things being as I like them.’