Sylvia was silent again: pale and weary she sate, her eyes still
shut.
Then she said, 'Yet he were so good to mother; and mother loved him so. Oh,
Kester!' lifting herself up, opening her great wistful eyes, 'it's
well for folks as can die; they're spared a deal o' misery.' 'Ay!' said he. 'But there's folk as one 'ud like to keep fra'
shirkin' their misery. Think yo' now as Philip is livin'?' Sylvia shivered all over, and hesitated before she replied.
'I dunnot know. I said such things; he deserved 'em all----' 'Well, well, lass!' said Kester, sorry that he had asked the
question which was producing so much emotion of one kind or another.
'Neither thee nor me can tell; we can neither help nor hinder,
seein' as he's ta'en hissel' off out on our sight, we'd best not
think on him. A'll try an' tell thee some news, if a can think on it
wi' my mind so full. Thou knows Haytersbank folk ha' flitted, and t'
oud place is empty?' 'Yes!' said Sylvia, with the indifference of one wearied out with
feeling.
'A only telled yo' t' account like for me bein' at a loose end i'
Monkshaven. My sister, her as lived at Dale End an' is a widow, has
comed int' town to live; an' a'm lodging wi' her, an' jobbin' about.
A'm gettin' pretty well to do, an' a'm noane far t' seek, an' a'm
going now: only first a just wanted for t' say as a'm thy oldest
friend, a reckon, and if a can do a turn for thee, or go an errand,
like as a've done to-day, or if it's any comfort to talk a bit to
one who's known thy life from a babby, why yo've only t' send for
me, an' a'd come if it were twenty mile. A'm lodgin' at Peggy
Dawson's, t' lath and plaster cottage at t' right hand o' t' bridge,
a' among t' new houses, as they're thinkin' o' buildin' near t' sea:
no one can miss it.' He stood up and shook hands with her. As he did so, he looked at her
sleeping baby.
'She's liker yo' than him. A think a'll say, God bless her.' With the heavy sound of his out-going footsteps, baby awoke. She
ought before this time to have been asleep in her bed, and the
disturbance made her cry fretfully.
'Hush thee, darling, hush thee!' murmured her mother; 'there's no
one left to love me but thee, and I cannot stand thy weeping, my
pretty one. Hush thee, my babe, hush thee!' She whispered soft in the little one's ear as she took her upstairs
to bed.