‘Not yet,’ said Philip, stopping her in her progress towards the door.  ’He’s busy talking to Kester.  I’m in no haste to be gone.  I can stay a couple of hours.  Sit down, and tell me how you are yoursel’—­and how iverything is.  And I’ve a deal to tell you.’

‘To be sure—­to be sure.  To think thou’s been in Lunnon sin’ I saw thee!—­well to be sure!  There’s a vast o’ coming and going i’ this world.  Thou’ll mind yon specksioneer lad, him as was cousin to t’ Corneys—­Charley Kinraid?’

Mind him!  As if he could forget him.

‘Well! he’s dead and gone.’

‘Dead!  Who told you?  I don’t understand,’ said Philip, in strange bewilderment.  Could Kinraid have tried to escape after all, and been wounded, killed in the attempt?  If not, how should they know he was dead?  Missing he might be, though how this should be known was strange, as he was supposed to be sailing to the Greenland seas.  But dead!  What did they mean?  At Philip’s worst moment of hatred he had hardly dared to wish him dead.

‘Dunnot yo’ mention it afore our Sylvie; we niver speak on him to her, for she takes it a deal to heart, though I’m thinkin’ it were a good thing for her; for he’d got a hold of her—­he had on Bessy Corney, too, as her mother telled me;—­not that I iver let on to them as Sylvia frets after him, so keep a calm sough, my lad.  It’s a girl’s fancy—­just a kind o’ calf-love; let it go by; and it’s well for her he’s dead, though it’s hard to say so on a drowned man.’

‘Drowned!’ said Philip.  ‘How do yo’ know?’ half hoping that the poor drenched swollen body might have been found, and thus all questions and dilemmas solved.  Kinraid might have struggled overboard with ropes or handcuffs on, and so have been drowned.

‘Eh, lad! there’s no misdoubtin’ it.  He were thought a deal on by t’ captain o’ t’ Urania; and when he niver come back on t’ day when she ought for to have sailed, he sent to Kinraid’s people at Cullercoats, and they sent to Brunton’s i’ Newcassel, and they knew he’d been here.  T’ captain put off sailing for two or three days, that he might ha’ that much law; but when he heard as Kinraid were not at Corneys’, but had left ’em a’most on to a week, he went off to them Northern seas wi’ t’ next best specksioneer he could find.  For there’s no use speaking ill on t’ dead; an’ though I couldn’t abear his coming for iver about t’ house, he were a rare good specksioneer, as I’ve been told.’

‘But how do you know he was drowned?’ said Philip, feeling guiltily disappointed at his aunt’s story.

’Why, lad!  I’m a’most ashamed to tell thee, I were sore put out mysel’; but Sylvia were so broken-hearted like I couldn’t cast it up to her as I should ha’ liked:  th’ silly lass had gone and gi’en him a bit o’ ribbon, as many a one knowed, for it had been a vast noticed and admired that evenin’ at th’ Corneys’—­new year’s eve I think it were—­and t’ poor vain peacock had tied it on his hat, so that when t’ tide——­hist! there’s Sylvie coming in at t’ back-door; never let on,’ and in a forced made-up voice she inquired aloud, for hitherto she had been speaking almost in a whisper,—­