Sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of her walk and the weight of her baby, that all she could do when the door was opened was to totter into the nearest seat, sit down, and begin to cry.

In an instant kind hands were about her, loosening her heavy cloak, offering to relieve her of her child, who clung to her all the more firmly, and some one was pressing a glass of wine against her lips.

‘No, sir, I cannot take it! wine allays gives me th’ headache; if I might have just a drink o’ water.  Thank you, ma’am’ (to the respectable-looking old servant), ’I’m well enough now; and perhaps, sir, I might speak a word with yo’, for it’s that I’ve come for.’

’It’s a pity, Sylvia Hepburn, as thee didst not come to me at the bank, for it’s been a long toil for thee all this way in the heat, with thy child.  But if there’s aught I can do or say for thee, thou hast but to name it, I am sure.  Martha! wilt thou relieve her of her child while she comes with me into the parlour?’

But the wilful little Bella stoutly refused to go to any one, and Sylvia was not willing to part with her, tired though she was.

So the baby was carried into the parlour, and much of her after-life depended on this trivial fact.

Once installed in the easy-chair, and face to face with Jeremiah, Sylvia did not know how to begin.

Jeremiah saw this, and kindly gave her time to recover herself, by pulling out his great gold watch, and letting the seal dangle before the child’s eyes, almost within reach of the child’s eager little fingers.

‘She favours you a deal,’ said he, at last.  ‘More than her father,’ he went on, purposely introducing Philip’s name, so as to break the ice; for he rightly conjectured she had come to speak to him about something connected with her husband.

Still Sylvia said nothing; she was choking down tears and shyness, and unwillingness to take as confidant a man of whom she knew so little, on such slight ground (as she now felt it to be) as the little kindly speech with which she had been dismissed from that house the last time that she entered it.

‘It’s no use keeping yo’, sir,’ she broke out at last.  ’It’s about Philip as I comed to speak.  Do yo’ know any thing whatsomever about him?  He niver had a chance o’ saying anything, I know; but maybe he’s written?’

‘Not a line, my poor young woman!’ said Jeremiah, hastily putting an end to that vain idea.

‘Then he’s either dead or gone away for iver,’ she whispered.  ’I mun be both feyther and mother to my child.’

‘Oh! thee must not give it up,’ replied he.  ’Many a one is carried off to the wars, or to the tenders o’ men-o’-war; and then they turn out to be unfit for service, and are sent home.  Philip ’ll come back before the year’s out; thee’ll see that.’

’No; he’ll niver come back.  And I’m not sure as I should iver wish him t’ come back, if I could but know what was gone wi’ him.  Yo’ see, sir, though I were sore set again’ him, I shouldn’t like harm to happen him.’