is own house-place, and saw his poor wife
quivering and shaking all over with her efforts to keep back all
signs of emotion until he was gone; and Sylvia standing by her
mother, her arm round Bell's waist and stroking the poor shrunken
fingers which worked so perpetually and nervously in futile
unconscious restlessness. Kester was in a corner of the room,
sullenly standing.

Bell quaked from head to foot as her husband came down-stairs a
prisoner. She opened her lips several times with an uneasy motion,
as if she would fain say something, but knew not what. Sylvia's
passionate swollen lips and her beautiful defiant eyes gave her face
quite a new aspect; she looked a helpless fury.

'A may kiss my missus, a reckon,' said Daniel, coming to a
standstill as he passed near her.

'Oh, Dannel, Dannel!' cried she, opening her arms wide to receive
him. 'Dannel, Dannel, my man!' and she shook with her crying, laying
her head on his shoulder, as if he was all her stay and comfort.

'Come, missus! come, missus!' said he, 'there couldn't be more ado
if a'd been guilty of murder, an' yet a say again, as a said afore,
a'm noane ashamed o' my doings. Here, Sylvie, lass, tak' thy mother
off me, for a cannot do it mysel', it like sets me off.' His voice
was quavering as he said this. But he cheered up a little and said,
'Now, good-by, oud wench' (kissing her), 'and keep a good heart,
and let me see thee lookin' lusty and strong when a come back.
Good-by, my lass; look well after mother, and ask Philip for
guidance if it's needed.'

He was taken out of his home, and then arose the shrill cries of the
women; but in a minute or two they were checked by the return of one
of the constables, who, cap in hand at the sight of so much grief,
said,--

'He wants a word wi' his daughter.'

The party had come to a halt about ten yards from the house. Sylvia,
hastily wiping her tears on her apron, ran out and threw her arms
round her father, as if to burst out afresh on his neck.

'Nay, nay, my wench, it's thee as mun be a comfort to mother: nay,
nay, or thou'll niver hear what a've got to say. Sylvie, my lass,
a'm main and sorry a were so short wi' thee last neet; a ax thy
pardon, lass, a were cross to thee, and sent thee to thy bed wi' a
sore heart. Thou munnot think on it again, but forgie me, now a'm
leavin' thee.'

'Oh, feyther! feyther!' was all Sylvia could say; and at last they
had to make as though they would have used force to s