ignant; 'now that is a
sin. Eh! if thou only knew the lot o' some folk. But let's talk no
more on that, that cannot be helped; go, take him his tea, for it's
a sad thing to think on him fasting all this time.'

Hester's voice was raised by the simple fact of her change of
position; and the word fasting caught Mrs. Robson's ear, as she sate
at her knitting by the chimney-corner.

'Fasting? he said thou didn't care if he were full or fasting.
Lassie! it's not right in thee, I say; go, take him his tea at
once.'

Sylvia rose, and gave up the baby, which she had been suckling, to
Nancy, who having done her washing, had come for her charge, to put
it to bed. Sylvia kissed it fondly, making a little moan of sad,
passionate tenderness as she did so. Then she took the cup of tea;
but she said, rather defiantly, to Hester,--

'I'll go to him with it, because mother bids me, and it'll ease her
mind.'

Then louder to her mother, she added,--

'Mother, I'll take him his tea, though I couldn't help the being
out.'

If the act itself was conciliatory, the spirit in which she was
going to do it was the reverse. Hester followed her slowly into the
ware-room, with intentional delay, thinking that her presence might
be an obstacle to their mutually understanding one another. Sylvia
held the cup and plate of bread and butter out to Philip, but
avoided meeting his eye, and said not a word of explanation, or
regret, or self-justification. If she had spoken, though ever so
crossly, Philip would have been relieved, and would have preferred
it to her silence. He wanted to provoke her to speech, but did not
know how to begin.

'Thou's been out again wandering on that sea-shore!' said he. She
did not answer him. 'I cannot think what's always taking thee there,
when one would ha' thought a walk up to Esdale would be far more
sheltered, both for thee and baby in such weather as this. Thou'll
be having that baby ill some of these days.'

At this, she looked up at him, and her lips moved as though she were
going to say something. Oh, how he wished she would, that they might
come to a wholesome quarrel, and a making friends again, and a
tender kissing, in which he might whisper penitence for all his
hasty words, or unreasonable vexation. But she had come resolved not
to speak, for fear of showing too much passion, too much emotion.
Only as she was going away she turned and said,--

'Philip, mother hasn't many more years to live; dunnot