She would have liked to have seen the men, and shaken hands with them all round.  But instead she must go home, and well would it be with her if she was in time for her husband’s supper, and escaped any notice of her absence.  So she separated herself from the groups of women who sate on the grass in the churchyard, awaiting the return of such of their husbands as could resist the fascinations of the Monkshaven public houses.  As Sylvia went down the church steps, she came upon one of the fishermen who had helped to tow the vessel into port.

’There was seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a navy-lieutenant as had comed as passenger.  It were a good job as we could manage her.  Good-neet to thee, thou’ll sleep all t’ sounder for havin’ lent a hand.’

The street air felt hot and close after the sharp keen atmosphere of the heights above; the decent shops and houses had all their shutters put up, and were preparing for their early bed-time.  Already lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, and Sylvia scarcely met any one.

She went round up the passage from the quay-side, and in by the private door.  All was still; the basins of bread and milk that she and her husband were in the habit of having for supper stood in the fender before the fire, each with a plate upon them.  Nancy had gone to bed, Phoebe dozed in the kitchen; Philip was still in the ware-room, arranging goods and taking stock along with Coulson, for Hester had gone home to her mother.

Sylvia was not willing to go and seek out Philip, after the manner in which they had parted.  All the despondency of her life became present to her again as she sate down within her home.  She had forgotten it in her interest and excitement, but now it came back again.

Still she was hungry, and youthful, and tired.  She took her basin up, and was eating her supper when she heard a cry of her baby upstairs, and ran away to attend to it.  When it had been fed and hushed away to sleep, she went in to see her mother, attracted by some unusual noise in her room.

She found Mrs. Robson awake, and restless, and ailing; dwelling much on what Philip had said in his anger against Sylvia.  It was really necessary for her daughter to remain with her; so Sylvia stole out, and went quickly down-stairs to Philip—­now sitting tired and worn out, and eating his supper with little or no appetite—­and told him she meant to pass the night with her mother.

His answer of acquiescence was so short and careless, or so it seemed to her, that she did not tell him any more of what she had done or seen that evening, or even dwell upon any details of her mother’s indisposition.

As soon as she had left the room, Philip set down his half-finished basin of bread and milk, and sate long, his face hidden in his folded arms.  The wick of the candle grew long and black, and fell, and sputtered, and guttered; he sate on, unheeding either it or the pale gray fire that was dying out—­dead at last.