'I suppose I mun go,' she said; 'but I'd sooner face the dead. If
she asks me, Philip, what mun I say?' 'She'll not ask yo',' said he, 'if yo' go about as common. She's
never asked yo' all this time, an' if she does, put her on to me.
I'll keep it from her as long as I can; I'll manage better nor I've
done wi' thee, Sylvie,' said he, with a sad, faint smile, looking
with fond penitence at her altered countenance.
'Thou mustn't blame thysel',' said Sylvia, seeing his regret. 'I
brought it on me mysel'; I thought I would ha' t' truth, whativer
came on it, and now I'm not strong enough to stand it, God help me!'
she continued, piteously.
'Oh, Sylvie, let me help yo'! I cannot do what God can,--I'm not
meaning that, but I can do next to Him of any man. I have loved yo'
for years an' years, in a way it's terrible to think on, if my love
can do nought now to comfort yo' in your sore distress.' 'Cousin Philip,' she replied, in the same measured tone in which she
had always spoken since she had learnt the extent of her father's
danger, and the slow stillness of her words was in harmony with the
stony look of her face, 'thou's a comfort to me, I couldn't bide my
life without thee; but I cannot take in the thought o' love, it
seems beside me quite; I can think on nought but them that is quick
and them that is dead.'