grieve her,
and set her again' me by finding fault wi' me afore her. Our being
wed were a great mistake; but before t' poor old widow woman let us
make as if we were happy.'

'Sylvie! Sylvie!' he called after her. She must have heard, but she
did not turn. He went after her, and seized her by the arm rather
roughly; she had stung him to the heart with her calm words, which
seemed to reveal a long-formed conviction.

'Sylvie!' said he, almost fiercely, 'what do yo' mean by what you've
said? Speak! I will have an answer.'

He almost shook her: she was half frightened by his vehemence of
behaviour, which she took for pure anger, while it was the outburst
of agonized and unrequited love.

'Let me go! Oh, Philip, yo' hurt me!'

Just at this moment Hester came up; Philip was ashamed of his
passionate ways in her serene presence, and loosened his grasp of
his wife, and she ran away; ran into her mother's empty room, as to
a solitary place, and there burst into that sobbing, miserable
crying which we instinctively know is too surely lessening the
length of our days on earth to be indulged in often.

When she had exhausted that first burst and lay weak and quiet for a
time, she listened in dreading expectation of the sound of his
footstep coming in search of her to make friends. But he was
detained below on business, and never came. Instead, her mother came
clambering up the stairs; she was now in the habit of going to bed
between seven and eight, and to-night she was retiring at even an
earlier hour.

Sylvia sprang up and drew down the window-blind, and made her face
and manner as composed as possible, in order to soothe and comfort
her mother's last waking hours. She helped her to bed with gentle
patience; the restraint imposed upon her by her tender filial love
was good for her, though all the time she was longing to be alone to
have another wild outburst. When her mother was going off to sleep,
Sylvia went to look at her baby, also in a soft sleep. Then she
gazed out at the evening sky, high above the tiled roofs of the
opposite houses, and the longing to be out under the peaceful
heavens took possession of her once more.

'It's my only comfort,' said she to herself; 'and there's no earthly
harm in it. I would ha' been at home to his tea, if I could; but
when he doesn't want me, and mother doesn't want me, and baby is
either in my arms or asleep; why, I'll go any cry my fill out under
yon great quiet sky. I cann