poured rum down his throat, and bandaged him up, and has sent for t’ first doctor in Monkshaven for to get t’ slugs out; for they say there’s niver such a harpooner in a’ t’ Greenland seas; an’ I can speak fra’ my own seeing he’s a fine young fellow where he lies theere, all stark and wan for weakness and loss o’ blood.  But Darley’s dead as a door-nail; and there’s to be such a burying of him as niver was seen afore i’ Monkshaven, come Sunday.  And now gi’ us t’ iron, wench, and let’s lose no more time a-talking.’

‘It’s noane loss o’ time,’ said Daniel, moving himself heavily in his chair, to feel how helpless he was once more.  ’If a were as young as once a were—­nay, lad, if a had na these sore rheumatics, now—­a reckon as t’ press-gang ‘ud find out as t’ shouldn’t do such things for nothing.  Bless thee, man! it’s waur nor i’ my youth i’ th’ Ameriky war, and then ‘t were bad enough.’

‘And Kinraid?’ said Sylvia, drawing a long breath, after the effort of realizing it all; her cheeks had flushed up, and her eyes had glittered during the progress of the tale.

‘Oh! he’ll do.  He’ll not die.  Life’s stuff is in him yet.’

‘He’ll be Molly Corney’s cousin, I reckon,’ said Sylvia, bethinking her with a blush of Molly Corney’s implication that he was more than a cousin to her, and immediately longing to go off and see Molly, and hear all the little details which women do not think it beneath them to give to women.  From that time Sylvia’s little heart was bent on this purpose.  But it was not one to be openly avowed even to herself.  She only wanted sadly to see Molly, and she almost believed herself that it was to consult her about the fashion of her cloak; which Donkin was to cut out, and which she was to make under his directions; at any rate, this was the reason she gave to her mother when the day’s work was done, and a fine gleam came out upon the pale and watery sky towards evening.

CHAPTER VI

THE SAILOR’S FUNERAL

Moss Brow, the Corney’s house, was but a disorderly, comfortless place.  You had to cross a dirty farmyard, all puddles and dungheaps, on stepping-stones, to get to the door of the house-place.  That great room itself was sure to have clothes hanging to dry at the fire, whatever day of the week it was; some one of the large irregular family having had what is called in the district a ‘dab-wash’ of a few articles, forgotten on the regular day.  And sometimes these articles lay in their dirty state in the untidy kitchen, out of which a room, half parlour, half bedroom, opened on one side, and a dairy, the only clean place in the house, at the opposite.  In face of you, as you entered the door, was the entrance to the working-kitchen, or scullery.  Still, in spite of disorder like this, there was a well-to-do aspect about the place; the Corneys were rich in their way, in flocks and herds as well as in children; and