'It's a' reet!' said he, hobbling quickly down. 'Niver fidget

theesel' wi' gettin' ready to go search for her. I'll tak' thee a

bet it's Philip Hepburn's voice, convoying her home, just as I said

he would, an hour sin'.' Bell did not answer, as she might have done, that this probability

of Philip's bringing Sylvia home had been her own suggestion, set

aside by her husband as utterly unlikely. Another minute and the

countenances of both parents imperceptibly and unconsciously relaxed

into pleasure as Sylvia came in.

She looked very rosy from the walk, and the October air, which began

to be frosty in the evenings; there was a little cloud over her face

at first, but it was quickly dispersed as she met the loving eyes of

home. Philip, who followed her, had an excited, but not altogether

pleased look about him. He received a hearty greeting from Daniel,

and a quiet one from his aunt.

'Tak' off thy pan o' milk, missus, and set on t' kettle. Milk may do

for wenches, but Philip and me is for a drop o' good Hollands and

watter this cold night. I'm a'most chilled to t' marrow wi' looking

out for thee, lass, for t' mother was in a peck o' troubles about

thy none coining home i' t' dayleet, and I'd to keep hearkening out

on t' browhead.' This was entirely untrue, and Bell knew it to be so; but her husband

did not. He had persuaded himself now, as he had done often before,

that what he had in reality done for his own pleasure or

satisfaction, he had done in order to gratify some one else.

'The town was rough with a riot between the press-gang and the

whaling folk; and I thought I'd best see Sylvia home.' 'Ay, ay, lad; always welcome, if it's only as an excuse for t'

liquor. But t' whalers, say'st ta? Why, is t' whalers in? There was

none i' sight yesterday, when I were down on t' shore. It's early

days for 'em as yet. And t' cursed old press-gang's agate again,

doing its devil's work!' His face changed as he ended his speech, and showed a steady passion

of old hatred.

'Ay, missus, yo' may look. I wunnot pick and choose my words,

noather for yo' nor for nobody, when I speak o' that daumed gang.

I'm none ashamed o' my words. They're true, and I'm ready to prove

'em. Where's my forefinger? Ay! and as good a top-joint of a thumb

as iver a man had? I wish I'd kept 'em i' sperits, as they done

things at t' 'potticary's, just to show t' lass what flesh and bone

I made away wi' to get free. I ups wi' a hatchet when I saw as I

were fast a-board a man-o'-war standing out for sea--it were in t'

time o' the war wi' Amerikay, an' I could na stomach the thought o'

being murdered i' my own language--so I ups wi' a hatchet, and I

says to Bill Watson, says I, "Now, my lad, if thou'll do me a

kindness, I'll pay thee back, niver fear, and they'll be glad enough

to get shut on us, and send us to old England again. Just come down

with a will." Now, missus, why can't ye sit still and listen to me,

'stead o' pottering after pans and what not?' said he, speaking

crossly to his wife, who had heard the story scores of times, and,

it must be confessed, was making some noise in preparing bread and

milk for Sylvia's supper.




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