Before Mrs. Robson, however, had put away her knitting, voices were heard at a good distance down the lane, but coming nearer every moment, and once more Daniel climbed the little brow to look and to listen.

‘It’s a’ reet!’ said he, hobbling quickly down.  ’Niver fidget theesel’ wi’ gettin’ ready to go search for her.  I’ll tak’ thee a bet it’s Philip Hepburn’s voice, convoying her home, just as I said he would, an hour sin’.’

Bell did not answer, as she might have done, that this probability of Philip’s bringing Sylvia home had been her own suggestion, set aside by her husband as utterly unlikely.  Another minute and the countenances of both parents imperceptibly and unconsciously relaxed into pleasure as Sylvia came in.

She looked very rosy from the walk, and the October air, which began to be frosty in the evenings; there was a little cloud over her face at first, but it was quickly dispersed as she met the loving eyes of home.  Philip, who followed her, had an excited, but not altogether pleased look about him.  He received a hearty greeting from Daniel, and a quiet one from his aunt.

‘Tak’ off thy pan o’ milk, missus, and set on t’ kettle.  Milk may do for wenches, but Philip and me is for a drop o’ good Hollands and watter this cold night.  I’m a’most chilled to t’ marrow wi’ looking out for thee, lass, for t’ mother was in a peck o’ troubles about thy none coining home i’ t’ dayleet, and I’d to keep hearkening out on t’ browhead.’

This was entirely untrue, and Bell knew it to be so; but her husband did not.  He had persuaded himself now, as he had done often before, that what he had in reality done for his own pleasure or satisfaction, he had done in order to gratify some one else.

’The town was rough with a riot between the press-gang and the whaling folk; and I thought I’d best see Sylvia home.’

‘Ay, ay, lad; always welcome, if it’s only as an excuse for t’ liquor.  But t’ whalers, say’st ta?  Why, is t’ whalers in?  There was none i’ sight yesterday, when I were down on t’ shore.  It’s early days for ’em as yet.  And t’ cursed old press-gang’s agate again, doing its devil’s work!’

His face changed as he ended his speech, and showed a steady passion of old hatred.

‘Ay, missus, yo’ may look.  I wunnot pick and choose my words, noather for yo’ nor for nobody, when I speak o’ that daumed gang.  I’m none ashamed o’ my words.  They’re true, and I’m ready to prove ’em.  Where’s my forefinger?  Ay! and as good a top-joint of a thumb as iver a man had?  I wish I’d kept ’em i’ sperits, as they done things at t’ ‘potticary’s, just to show t’ lass what flesh and bone I made away wi’ to get free.  I ups wi’ a hatchet when I saw as I were fast a-board a man-o’-war standing out for sea—­it were in t’ time o’ the war wi’ Amerikay, an’ I could na stomach the thought o’ being murdered i’ my own language—­so I ups wi’ a hatchet, and I says to Bill Watson, says I, “Now,