weather come afore its
time. But I'll make him a treacle-posset, it's a famous thing for
keeping off hoasts.'

The treacle-posset was entertainment enough for both while it was
being made. But once placed in a little basin in the oven, there was
again time for wonder and anxiety.

'He said nought about having a bout, did he, mother?' asked Sylvia
at length.

'No,' said Bell, her face a little contracting. After a while she
added, 'There's many a one as has husbands that goes off drinking
without iver saying a word to their wives. My master is none o' that
mak'.'

'Mother,' broke in Sylvia again, 'I'll just go and get t' lantern
out of t' shippen, and go up t' brow, and mebbe to t' ash-field
end.'

'Do, lass,' said her mother. 'I'll get my wraps and go with thee.'

'Thou shall do niver such a thing,' said Sylvia. 'Thou's too frail
to go out i' t' night air such a night as this.'

'Then call Kester up.'

'Not I. I'm noane afraid o' t' dark.'

'But of what thou mayst meet i' t' dark, lass?'

Sylvia shivered all over at the sudden thought, suggested by this
speech of her mother's, that the idea that had flashed into her own
mind of going to look for her father might be an answer to the
invocation to the Powers which she had made not long ago, that she
might indeed meet her dead lover at the ash-field stile; but though
she shivered as this superstitious fancy came into her head, her
heart beat firm and regular; not from darkness nor from the spirits
of the dead was she going to shrink; her great sorrow had taken away
all her girlish nervous fear.

She went; and she came back. Neither man nor spirit had she seen;
the wind was blowing on the height enough to sweep all creatures
before it; but no one was coming.

So they sate down again to keep watch. At length his step was heard
close to the door; and it startled them even in their state of
expectation.

'Why, feyther!' cried Sylvia as he entered; while his wife stood up
trembling, but not saying a word.

'A'm a'most done up,' said he, sitting heavily down on the chair
nearest the door.

'Poor old feyther!' said Sylvia, stooping to take off his heavy
clogged shoes; while Bell took the posset out of the oven.

'What's this? posset? what creatures women is for slops,' said he;
but he drank it all the same, while Sylvia fastened the door, and
brought the flaring candle from the window-seat. The fresh
arrangement of light displayed his face blackened with