Sylvia's Lovers

Hester went on: 'To be sure, this gray is the closer make, and would wear the

longest.' 'I don't care,' said Sylvia, still rejecting the dull gray. 'I like

this best. Eight yards, if you please, miss.'

'A cloak takes nine yards, at least,' said Philip, decisively.

'Mother told me eight,' said Sylvia, secretly conscious that her

mother would have preferred the more sober colour; and feeling that

as she had had her own way in that respect, she was bound to keep to

the directions she had received as to the quantity. But, indeed, she

would not have yielded to Philip in anything that she could help.

There was a sound of children's feet running up the street from the

river-side, shouting with excitement. At the noise, Sylvia forgot

her cloak and her little spirit of vexation, and ran to the

half-door of the shop. Philip followed because she went. Hester

looked on with passive, kindly interest, as soon as she had

completed her duty of measuring. One of those girls whom Sylvia had

seen as she and Molly left the crowd on the quay, came quickly up

the street. Her face, which was handsome enough as to feature, was

whitened with excess of passionate emotion, her dress untidy and

flying, her movements heavy and free. She belonged to the lowest

class of seaport inhabitants. As she came near, Sylvia saw that the

tears were streaming down her cheeks, quite unconsciously to

herself. She recognized Sylvia's face, full of interest as it was,

and stopped her clumsy run to speak to the pretty, sympathetic

creature.

'She's o'er t' bar! She's o'er t' bar! I'm boun' to tell mother!'

She caught at Sylvia's hand, and shook it, and went on breathless

and gasping.

'Sylvia, how came you to know that girl?' asked Philip, sternly.

'She's not one for you to be shaking hands with. She's known all

down t' quay-side as "Newcastle Bess."'

'I can't help it,' said Sylvia, half inclined to cry at his manner

even more than his words. 'When folk are glad I can't help being

glad too, and I just put out my hand, and she put out hers. To think

o' yon ship come in at last! And if yo'd been down seeing all t'

folk looking and looking their eyes out, as if they feared they

should die afore she came in and brought home the lads they loved,

yo'd ha' shaken hands wi' that lass too, and no great harm done. I

never set eyne upon her till half an hour ago on th' staithes, and

maybe I'll niver see her again.'