and stood up, dizzy. Up the little wooden
stairs he went, where he had never been before, to the small square
landing, almost filled up with the great chest for oat-cake. He
breathed hard for a minute, and then knocked at the door of Sylvia's
room.

'Sylvie! I'm going away; say good-by.' No answer. Not a sound heard.
'Sylvie!' (a little louder, and less hoarsely spoken). There was no
reply. 'Sylvie! I shall be a long time away; perhaps I may niver
come back at all'; here he bitterly thought of an unregarded death.
'Say good-by.' No answer. He waited patiently. Can she be wearied
out, and gone to sleep, he wondered. Yet once again--'Good-by,
Sylvie, and God bless yo'! I'm sorry I vexed yo'.'

No reply.

With a heavy, heavy heart he creaked down the stairs, felt for his
cap, and left the house.

'She's warned, any way,' thought he. Just at that moment the little
casement window of Sylvia's room was opened, and she said--

'Good-by, Philip!'

The window was shut again as soon as the words were spoken. Philip
knew the uselessness of remaining; the need for his departure; and
yet he stood still for a little time like one entranced, as if his
will had lost all power to compel him to leave the place. Those two
words of hers, which two hours before would have been so far beneath
his aspirations, had now power to re-light hope, to quench reproach
or blame.

'She's but a young lassie,' said he to himself; 'an' Kinraid has
been playing wi' her, as such as he can't help doing, once they get
among the women. An' I came down sudden on her about Annie Coulson,
and touched her pride. Maybe, too, it were ill advised to tell her
how her mother was feared for her. I couldn't ha' left the place
to-morrow if he'd been biding here; but he's off for half a year or
so, and I'll be home again as soon as iver I can. In half a year
such as he forgets, if iver he's thought serious about her; but in
a' my lifetime, if I live to fourscore, I can niver forget. God
bless her for saying, "Good-by, Philip."' He repeated the words
aloud in fond mimicry of her tones: 'Good-by, Philip.'

CHAPTER XVIII

EDDY IN LOVE'S CURRENT

The next morning shone bright and clear, if ever a March morning
did. The beguiling month was coming in like a lamb, with whatever
storms it might go raging out. It was long since Philip had tasted
the freshness of the early air on the shore, or in the country, as
his employment at the shop detained him in Monk