She went through the greater part of the ceremony in the same hard, unmoved manner in which she had received everything for days past.

But on looking up once, as they formed round the open grave, she saw Kester, in his Sunday clothes, with a bit of new crape round his hat, crying as if his heart would break over the coffin of his good, kind mistress.

His evident distress, the unexpected sight, suddenly loosed the fountain of Sylvia’s tears, and her sobs grew so terrible that Hester feared she would not be able to remain until the end of the funeral.  But she struggled hard to stay till the last, and then she made an effort to go round by the place where Kester stood.

‘Come and see me,’ was all she could say for crying:  and Kester only nodded his head—­he could not speak a word.

CHAPTER XXXVI

MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS

That very evening Kester came, humbly knocking at the kitchen-door.  Phoebe opened it.  He asked to see Sylvia.

‘A know not if she’ll see thee,’ said Phoebe.  ‘There’s no makin’ her out; sometimes she’s for one thing, sometimes she’s for another.’

‘She bid me come and see her,’ said Kester.  ‘Only this mornin’, at missus’ buryin’, she telled me to come.’

So Phoebe went off to inform Sylvia that Kester was there; and returned with the desire that he would walk into the parlour.  An instant after he was gone, Phoebe heard him return, and carefully shut the two doors of communication between the kitchen and sitting-room.

Sylvia was in the latter when Kester came in, holding her baby close to her; indeed, she seldom let it go now-a-days to any one else, making Nancy’s place quite a sinecure, much to Phoebe’s indignation.

Sylvia’s face was shrunk, and white, and thin; her lovely eyes alone retained the youthful, almost childlike, expression.  She went up to Kester, and shook his horny hand, she herself trembling all over.

‘Don’t talk to me of her,’ she said hastily.  ’I cannot stand it.  It’s a blessing for her to be gone, but, oh——­’

She began to cry, and then cheered herself up, and swallowed down her sobs.

‘Kester,’ she went on, hastily, ’Charley Kinraid isn’t dead; dost ta know?  He’s alive, and he were here o’ Tuesday—­no, Monday, was it?  I cannot tell—­but he were here!’

’A knowed as he weren’t dead.  Every one is a-speaking on it.  But a didn’t know as thee’d ha’ seen him.  A took comfort i’ thinkin’ as thou’d ha’ been wi’ thy mother a’ t’ time as he were i’ t’ place.’

‘Then he’s gone?’ said Sylvia.

‘Gone; ay, days past.  As far as a know, he but stopped a’ neet.  A thought to mysel’ (but yo’ may be sure a said nought to nobody), he’s heerd as our Sylvia were married, and has put it in his pipe, and ta’en hissel’ off to smoke it.’

‘Kester!’ said Sylvia, leaning forwards, and whispering.  ’I saw him.  He was here.  Philip saw him.  Philip had known as he wasn’t dead a’ this time!’