‘What for do yo’ want my keys?’ asked Bell.

‘Only just to get out one of t’ damask napkins.’

‘The best napkins, as my mother span?’

‘Yes!’ said Sylvia, her colour heightening.  ’I thought as how it would set off t’ sausages.’

‘A good clean homespun cloth will serve them better,’ said Bell, wondering in her own mind what was come over the girl, to be thinking of setting off sausages that were to be eaten, not to be looked at like a picture-book.  She might have wondered still more, if she had seen Sylvia steal round to the little flower border she had persuaded Kester to make under the wall at the sunny side of the house, and gather the two or three Michaelmas daisies, and the one bud of the China rose, that, growing against the kitchen chimney, had escaped the frost; and then, when her mother was not looking, softly open the cloth inside of the little basket that contained the sausages and a fresh egg or two, and lay her autumn blossoms in one of the folds of the towel.

After Daniel, now pretty clear of his rheumatism, had had his afternoon meal (tea was a Sunday treat), he prepared to set out on his walk to Moss Brow; but as he was taking his stick he caught the look on Sylvia’s face; and unconsciously interpreted its dumb wistfulness.

‘Missus,’ said he, ‘t’ wench has nought more t’ do, has she?  She may as well put on her cloak and step down wi’ me, and see Molly a bit; she’ll be company like.’

Bell considered.

‘There’s t’ yarn for thy stockings as is yet to spin; but she can go, for I’ll do a bit at ‘t mysel’, and there’s nought else agate.’

‘Put on thy things in a jiffy, then, and let’s be off,’ said Daniel.

And Sylvia did not need another word.  Down she came in a twinkling, dressed in her new red cloak and hood, her face peeping out of the folds of the latter, bright and blushing.

‘Thou should’st na’ ha’ put on thy new cloak for a night walk to Moss Brow,’ said Bell, shaking her head.

‘Shall I go take it off, and put on my shawl?’ asked Sylvia, a little dolefully.

‘Na, na, come along! a’m noane goin’ for t’ wait o’ women’s chops and changes.  Come along; come, Lassie!’ (this last to his dog).

So Sylvia set off with a dancing heart and a dancing step, that had to be restrained to the sober gait her father chose.  The sky above was bright and clear with the light of a thousand stars, the grass was crisping under their feet with the coming hoar frost; and as they mounted to the higher ground they could see the dark sea stretching away far below them.  The night was very still, though now and then crisp sounds in the distant air sounded very near in the silence.  Sylvia carried the basket, and looked like little Red Riding Hood.  Her father had nothing to say, and did not care to make himself agreeable; but Sylvia enjoyed her own thoughts, and any conversation would have been a disturbance to her.  The long