'To be sure; what then?' And she eyed him defiantly, though in her

heart she trembled, she knew not why.

'What then? and yo'r mother away. He's no company for such as thee,

at no time, Sylvie.' 'Feyther and me chooses our own company, without iver asking leave

o' yo',' said Sylvia, hastily arranging the things in the little

wooden work-box that was on the table, preparatory to putting it

away. At the time, in his agitation, he saw, but did not affix any

meaning to it, that the half of some silver coin was among the

contents thus turned over before the box was locked.

'But thy mother wouldn't like it, Sylvie; he's played false wi'

other lasses, he'll be playing thee false some o' these days, if

thou lets him come about thee. He went on wi' Annie Coulson,

William's sister, till he broke her heart; and sin then he's been on

wi' others.' 'I dunnot believe a word on 't,' said Sylvia, standing up, all

aflame.

'I niver telled a lie i' my life,' said Philip, almost choking with

grief at her manner to him, and the regard for his rival which she

betrayed. 'It were Willie Coulson as telled me, as solemn and

serious as one man can speak to another; and he said it weren't the

first nor the last time as he had made his own game with young

women.' 'And how dare yo' come here to me wi' yo'r backbiting tales?' said

Sylvia, shivering all over with passion.

Philip tried to keep calm, and to explain.

'It were yo'r own mother, Sylvia, as knowed yo' had no brother, or

any one to see after yo'; and yo' so pretty, so pretty, Sylvia,' he

continued, shaking his head, sadly, 'that men run after yo' against

their will, as one may say; and yo'r mother bade me watch o'er ye

and see what company yo' kept, and who was following after yo', and

to warn yo', if need were.' 'My mother niver bade yo' to come spying after me, and blaming me

for seeing a lad as my feyther thinks well on. An' I don't believe a

word about Annie Coulson; an' I'm not going to suffer yo' to come

wi' yo'r tales to me; say 'em out to his face, and hear what he'll

say to yo'.' 'Sylvie, Sylvie,' cried poor Philip, as his offended cousin rushed

past him, and upstairs to her little bedroom, where he heard the

sound of the wooden bolt flying into its place. He could hear her

feet pacing quickly about through the unceiled rafters. He sate

still in despair, his head buried in his two hands. He sate till it

grew dusk, dark; the wood fire, not gathered together by careful

hands, died out into gray ashes. Dolly Reid had done her work and

gone home. There were but Philip and Sylvia in the house. He knew he

ought to be going home, for he had much to do, and many arrangements

to make. Yet it seemed as though he could not stir. At length he

raised his stiffened body, and stood up, dizzy. Up the little wooden

stairs he went, where he had never been before, to the small square

landing, almost filled up with the great chest for oat-cake. He

breathed hard for a minute, and then knocked at the door of Sylvia's

room.




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