‘Yes,’ said Sylvia, not moving.  ’I’m afeared lest mother knows what I said to him, there, where she’s gone to—­I am-’ the tears filled her shut eyes, and came softly overflowing down her cheeks; ’and yet it were true, what I said, I cannot forgive him; he’s just spoilt my life, and I’m not one-and-twenty yet, and he knowed how wretched, how very wretched, I were.  A word fra’ him would ha’ mended it a’; and Charley had bid him speak the word, and give me his faithful love, and Philip saw my heart ache day after day, and niver let on as him I was mourning for was alive, and had sent me word as he’d keep true to me, as I were to do to him.’

‘A wish a’d been theere; a’d ha’ felled him to t’ ground,’ said Kester, clenching his stiff, hard hand with indignation.

Sylvia was silent again:  pale and weary she sate, her eyes still shut.

Then she said,

’Yet he were so good to mother; and mother loved him so.  Oh, Kester!’ lifting herself up, opening her great wistful eyes, ’it’s well for folks as can die; they’re spared a deal o’ misery.’

‘Ay!’ said he.  ’But there’s folk as one ‘ud like to keep fra’ shirkin’ their misery.  Think yo’ now as Philip is livin’?’

Sylvia shivered all over, and hesitated before she replied.

’I dunnot know.  I said such things; he deserved ’em all——­’

‘Well, well, lass!’ said Kester, sorry that he had asked the question which was producing so much emotion of one kind or another.  ’Neither thee nor me can tell; we can neither help nor hinder, seein’ as he’s ta’en hissel’ off out on our sight, we’d best not think on him.  A’ll try an’ tell thee some news, if a can think on it wi’ my mind so full.  Thou knows Haytersbank folk ha’ flitted, and t’ oud place is empty?’

‘Yes!’ said Sylvia, with the indifference of one wearied out with feeling.

‘A only telled yo’ t’ account like for me bein’ at a loose end i’ Monkshaven.  My sister, her as lived at Dale End an’ is a widow, has comed int’ town to live; an’ a’m lodging wi’ her, an’ jobbin’ about.  A’m gettin’ pretty well to do, an’ a’m noane far t’ seek, an’ a’m going now:  only first a just wanted for t’ say as a’m thy oldest friend, a reckon, and if a can do a turn for thee, or go an errand, like as a’ve done to-day, or if it’s any comfort to talk a bit to one who’s known thy life from a babby, why yo’ve only t’ send for me, an’ a’d come if it were twenty mile.  A’m lodgin’ at Peggy Dawson’s, t’ lath and plaster cottage at t’ right hand o’ t’ bridge, a’ among t’ new houses, as they’re thinkin’ o’ buildin’ near t’ sea:  no one can miss it.’

He stood up and shook hands with her.  As he did so, he looked at her sleeping baby.

‘She’s liker yo’ than him.  A think a’ll say, God bless her.’

With the heavy sound of his out-going footsteps, baby awoke.  She ought before this time to have been asleep in her bed, and the disturbance made her cry fretfully.