growing against the kitchen chimney,
had escaped the frost; and then, when her mother was not looking,
softly open the cloth inside of the little basket that contained the
sausages and a fresh egg or two, and lay her autumn blossoms in one
of the folds of the towel.

After Daniel, now pretty clear of his rheumatism, had had his
afternoon meal (tea was a Sunday treat), he prepared to set out on
his walk to Moss Brow; but as he was taking his stick he caught the
look on Sylvia's face; and unconsciously interpreted its dumb
wistfulness.

'Missus,' said he, 't' wench has nought more t' do, has she? She may
as well put on her cloak and step down wi' me, and see Molly a bit;
she'll be company like.'

Bell considered.

'There's t' yarn for thy stockings as is yet to spin; but she can
go, for I'll do a bit at 't mysel', and there's nought else agate.'

'Put on thy things in a jiffy, then, and let's be off,' said Daniel.

And Sylvia did not need another word. Down she came in a twinkling,
dressed in her new red cloak and hood, her face peeping out of the
folds of the latter, bright and blushing.

'Thou should'st na' ha' put on thy new cloak for a night walk to
Moss Brow,' said Bell, shaking her head.

'Shall I go take it off, and put on my shawl?' asked Sylvia, a
little dolefully.

'Na, na, come along! a'm noane goin' for t' wait o' women's chops
and changes. Come along; come, Lassie!' (this last to his dog).

So Sylvia set off with a dancing heart and a dancing step, that had
to be restrained to the sober gait her father chose. The sky above
was bright and clear with the light of a thousand stars, the grass
was crisping under their feet with the coming hoar frost; and as
they mounted to the higher ground they could see the dark sea
stretching away far below them. The night was very still, though now
and then crisp sounds in the distant air sounded very near in the
silence. Sylvia carried the basket, and looked like little Red
Riding Hood. Her father had nothing to say, and did not care to make
himself agreeable; but Sylvia enjoyed her own thoughts, and any
conversation would have been a disturbance to her. The long
monotonous roll of the distant waves, as the tide bore them in, the
multitudinous rush at last, and then the retreating rattle and
trickle, as the baffled waters fell back over the shingle that
skirted the sands, and divided them from the cliffs; her father's
measured tread, and slow, even movement; Las