Sylvia's Lovers

Still he knew his aunt's strong wish on the subject, and it was very

delightful to stand in the relation of teacher to so dear and

pretty, if so wilful, a pupil.

Perhaps it was not very flattering to notice Sylvia's great joy when

her lessons were over, sadly shortened as they were by Philip's

desire not to be too hard upon her. Sylvia danced round to her

mother, bent her head back, and kissed her face, and then said

defyingly to Philip,-'If iver I write thee a letter it shall just be full of nothing but

"Abednego! Abednego! Abednego!"' But at this moment her father came in from a distant expedition on

the moors with Kester to look after the sheep he had pasturing there

before the winter set fairly in. He was tired, and so was Lassie,

and so, too, was Kester, who, lifting his heavy legs one after the

other, and smoothing down his hair, followed his master into the

house-place, and seating himself on a bench at the farther end of

the dresser, patiently awaited the supper of porridge and milk which

he shared with his master. Sylvia, meanwhile, coaxed Lassie--poor

footsore dog--to her side, and gave her some food, which the

creature was almost too tired to eat. Philip made as though he would

be going, but Daniel motioned to him to be quiet.

'Sit thee down, lad. As soon as I've had my victual, I want t' hear

a bit o' news.' Sylvia took her sewing and sat at the little round table by her

mother, sharing the light of the scanty dip-candle. No one spoke.

Every one was absorbed in what they were doing. What Philip was

doing was, gazing at Sylvia--learning her face off by heart.

When every scrap of porridge was cleared out of the mighty bowl,

Kester yawned, and wishing good-night, withdrew to his loft over the

cow-house. Then Philip pulled out the weekly York paper, and began

to read the latest accounts of the war then raging. This was giving

Daniel one of his greatest pleasures; for though he could read

pretty well, yet the double effort of reading and understanding what

he read was almost too much for him. He could read, or he could

understand what was read aloud to him; reading was no pleasure, but

listening was.

Besides, he had a true John Bullish interest in the war, without

very well knowing what the English were fighting for. But in those

days, so long as they fought the French for any cause, or for no

cause at all, every true patriot was satisfied. Sylvia and her

mother did not care for any such far-extended interest; a little bit

of York news, the stealing of a few apples out of a Scarborough

garden that they knew, was of far more interest to them than all the

battles of Nelson and the North.