‘I wish I’d seen him,’ said Coulson.  ‘I’d ha’ gi’en him a word and a look he’d not ha’ forgotten in a hurry.’

‘Why, what’s up?’ said Philip, surprised at William’s unusual manner, and, at the same time, rather gratified to find a reflection of his own feelings about Kinraid.  Coulson’s face was pale with anger, but for a moment or two he seemed uncertain whether he would reply or not.

‘Up!’ said he at length.  ’It’s just this:  he came after my sister for better nor two year; and a better lass—­no, nor a prettier i’ my eyes—­niver broke bread.  And then my master saw another girl, that he liked better’—­William almost choked in his endeavour to keep down all appearance of violent anger, and then went on, ’and that he played t’ same game wi’, as I’ve heerd tell.’

‘And how did thy sister take it?’ asked Philip, eagerly.

‘She died in a six-month,’ said William; ’she forgived him, but it’s beyond me.  I thought it were him when I heerd of t’ work about Darley; Kinraid—­and coming fra’ Newcassel, where Annie lived ‘prentice—­and I made inquiry, and it were t’ same man.  But I’ll say no more about him, for it stirs t’ old Adam more nor I like, or is fitting.’

Out of respect to him, Philip asked no more questions although there were many things that he fain would have known.  Both Coulson and he went silently and grimly through the remainder of their day’s work.  Independent of any personal interest which either or both of them had or might have in Kinraid’s being a light o’ love, this fault of his was one with which the two grave, sedate young men had no sympathy.  Their hearts were true and constant, whatever else might be their failings; and it is no new thing to ’damn the faults we have no mind to.’  Philip wished that it was not so late, or that very evening he would have gone to keep guard over Sylvia in her mother’s absence—­nay, perhaps he might have seen reason to give her a warning of some kind.  But, if he had done so, it would have been locking the stable-door after the steed was stolen.  Kinraid had turned his steps towards Haytersbank Farm as soon as ever he had completed his purchases.  He had only come that afternoon to Monkshaven, and for the sole purpose of seeing Sylvia once more before he went to fulfil his engagement as specksioneer in the Urania, a whaling-vessel that was to sail from North Shields on Thursday morning, and this was Monday.

Sylvia sat in the house-place, her back to the long low window, in order to have all the light the afternoon hour afforded for her work.  A basket of her father’s unmended stockings was on the little round table beside her, and one was on her left hand, which she supposed herself to be mending; but from time to time she made long pauses, and looked in the fire; and yet there was but little motion of flame or light in it out of which to conjure visions.  It was ‘redd up’ for the afternoon; covered with a black mass