their husbands as could resist the fascinations of
the Monkshaven public houses. As Sylvia went down the church steps,
she came upon one of the fishermen who had helped to tow the vessel
into port.

'There was seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a navy-lieutenant
as had comed as passenger. It were a good job as we could manage
her. Good-neet to thee, thou'll sleep all t' sounder for havin' lent
a hand.'

The street air felt hot and close after the sharp keen atmosphere of
the heights above; the decent shops and houses had all their
shutters put up, and were preparing for their early bed-time.
Already lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, and
Sylvia scarcely met any one.

She went round up the passage from the quay-side, and in by the
private door. All was still; the basins of bread and milk that she
and her husband were in the habit of having for supper stood in the
fender before the fire, each with a plate upon them. Nancy had gone
to bed, Phoebe dozed in the kitchen; Philip was still in the
ware-room, arranging goods and taking stock along with Coulson, for
Hester had gone home to her mother.

Sylvia was not willing to go and seek out Philip, after the manner
in which they had parted. All the despondency of her life became
present to her again as she sate down within her home. She had
forgotten it in her interest and excitement, but now it came back
again.

Still she was hungry, and youthful, and tired. She took her basin
up, and was eating her supper when she heard a cry of her baby
upstairs, and ran away to attend to it. When it had been fed and
hushed away to sleep, she went in to see her mother, attracted by
some unusual noise in her room.

She found Mrs. Robson awake, and restless, and ailing; dwelling much
on what Philip had said in his anger against Sylvia. It was really
necessary for her daughter to remain with her; so Sylvia stole out,
and went quickly down-stairs to Philip--now sitting tired and worn
out, and eating his supper with little or no appetite--and told him
she meant to pass the night with her mother.

His answer of acquiescence was so short and careless, or so it
seemed to her, that she did not tell him any more of what she had
done or seen that evening, or even dwell upon any details of her
mother's indisposition.

As soon as she had left the room, Philip set down his half-finished
basin of bread and milk, and sate long, his face hidden in his
folded arms. The wick of