me forwards, ruddy as any rose, and in a moment Kinraid
recognized her as the pretty little girl he had seen crying so
bitterly over Darley's grave. He rose up out of true sailor's
gallantry, as she shyly approached and stood by her father's side,
scarcely daring to lift her great soft eyes, to have one fair gaze
at his face. He had to support himself by one hand rested on the
dresser, but she saw he was looking far better--younger, less
haggard--than he had seemed to her before. His face was short and
expressive; his complexion had been weatherbeaten and bronzed,
though now he looked so pale; his eyes and hair were dark,--the
former quick, deep-set, and penetrating; the latter curly, and
almost in ringlets. His teeth gleamed white as he smiled at her, a
pleasant friendly smile of recognition; but she only blushed the
deeper, and hung her head.

'I'll come, sir, and be thankful. I daresay a turn'll do me good, if
the weather holds up, an' th' frost keeps on.'

'That's right, my lad,' said Robson, shaking him by the hand, and
then Kinraid's hand was held out to Sylvia, and she could not avoid
the same friendly action.

Molly Corney followed her to the door, and when they were fairly
outside, she held Sylvia back for an instant to say,--

'Is na' he a fine likely man? I'm so glad as yo've seen him, for
he's to be off next week to Newcastle and that neighbourhood.'

'But he said he'd come to us some night?' asked Sylvia, half in a
fright.

'Ay, I'll see as he does; never fear. For I should like yo' for to
know him a bit. He's a rare talker. I'll mind him o' coming to yo'.'

Somehow, Sylvia felt as if this repeated promise of reminding
Kinraid of his promise to come and see her father took away part of
the pleasure she had anticipated from his visit. Yet what could be
more natural than that Molly Corney should wish her friend to be
acquainted with the man whom Sylvia believed to be all but Molly's
engaged lover?

Pondering these thoughts, the walk home was as silent as that going
to Moss Brow had been. The only change seemed to be that now they
faced the brilliant northern lights flashing up the sky, and that
either this appearance or some of the whaling narrations of Kinraid
had stirred up Daniel Robson's recollections of a sea ditty, which
he kept singing to himself in a low, unmusical voice, the burden of
which was, 'for I loves the tossin' say!' Bell met them at the door.

'Well, and here ye are at home agai