The days were now getting long, although as cold as ever; and at Haytersbank Farm the light lingered, as there was no near horizon to bring on early darkness.  Sylvia had all ready for her mother’s tea against she wakened; but she slept on and on, the peaceful sleep of a child, and Sylvia did not care to waken her.  Just after the sun had set, she saw Kester outside the window making signs to her to come out.  She stole out on tip-toe by the back-kitchen, the door of which was standing open.  She almost ran against Philip, who did not perceive her, as he was awaiting her coming the other way round the corner of the house, and who turned upon her a face whose import she read in an instant.  ‘Philip!’ was all she said, and then she fainted at his feet, coming down with a heavy bang on the round paving stones of the yard.

‘Kester!  Kester!’ he cried, for she looked like one dead, and with all his strength the wearied man could not lift her and carry her into the house.

With Kester’s help she was borne into the back-kitchen, and Kester rushed to the pump for some cold water to throw over her.

While Philip, kneeling at her head, was partly supporting her in his arms, and heedless of any sight or sound, the shadow of some one fell upon him.  He looked up and saw his aunt; the old dignified, sensible expression on her face, exactly like her former self, composed, strong, and calm.

‘My lass,’ said she, sitting down by Philip, and gently taking her out of his arms into her own.  ’Lass, bear up! we mun bear up, and be agait on our way to him, he’ll be needing us now.  Bear up, my lass! the Lord will give us strength.  We mun go to him; ay, time’s precious; thou mun cry thy cry at after!’

Sylvia opened her dim eyes, and heard her mother’s voice; the ideas came slowly into her mind, and slowly she rose up, standing still, like one who has been stunned, to regain her strength; and then, taking hold of her mother’s arm, she said, in a soft, strange voice—­

‘Let’s go.  I’m ready.’

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE ORDEAL

It was the afternoon of an April day in that same year, and the sky was blue above, with little sailing white clouds catching the pleasant sunlight.  The earth in that northern country had scarcely yet put on her robe of green.  The few trees grew near brooks running down from the moors and the higher ground.  The air was full of pleasant sounds prophesying of the coming summer.  The rush, and murmur, and tinkle of the hidden watercourses; the song of the lark poised high up in the sunny air; the bleat of the lambs calling to their mothers—­everything inanimate was full of hope and gladness.