She had guessed some of the causes which kept him from greeting them on their first return.  But it was not as if she had shaped these causes into the definite form of words.  It is astonishing to look back and find how differently constituted were the minds of most people fifty or sixty years ago; they felt, they understood, without going through reasoning or analytic processes, and if this was the case among the more educated people, of course it was still more so in the class to which Sylvia belonged.  She knew by some sort of intuition that if Philip accompanied them home (as, indeed, under the circumstances, was so natural as to be almost unavoidable), the old servant and friend of the family would absent himself; and so she slipped away at the first possible moment to go in search of him.  There he was in the farm-yard, leaning over the gate that opened into the home-field, apparently watching the poultry that scratched and pecked at the new-springing grass with the utmost relish.  A little farther off were the ewes with their new-dropped lambs, beyond that the great old thorn-tree with its round fresh clusters of buds, again beyond that there was a glimpse of the vast sunny rippling sea; but Sylvia knew well that Kester was looking at none of these things.  She went up to him and touched his arm.  He started from his reverie, and turned round upon her with his dim eyes full of unshed tears.  When he saw her black dress, her deep mourning, he had hard work to keep from breaking out, but by dint of a good brush of his eyes with the back of his hand, and a moment’s pause, he could look at her again with tolerable calmness.

‘Why, Kester:  why didst niver come to speak to us?’ said Sylvia, finding it necessary to be cheerful if she could.

‘A dun know; niver ax me.  A say, they’n gi’en Dick Simpson’ (whose evidence had been all material against poor Daniel Robson at the trial) ‘a’ t’ rotten eggs and fou’ things they could o’ Saturday, they did,’ continued he, in a tone of satisfaction; ’ay, and they niver stopped t’ see whether t’ eggs were rotten or fresh when their blood was up—­nor whether stones was hard or soft,’ he added, in a lower tone, and chuckling a little.

Sylvia was silent.  He looked at her now, chuckling still.  Her face was white, her lips tightened, her eyes a-flame.  She drew a long breath.

‘I wish I’d been theere!  I wish I could do him an ill turn,’ sighed she, with some kind of expression on her face that made Kester quail a little.

‘Nay, lass! he’ll get it fra’ others.  Niver fret thysel’ about sich rubbish.  A’n done ill to speak on him.’

‘No! thou hasn’t.  Then as was friends o’ father’s I’ll love for iver and iver; them as helped for t’ hang him’ (she shuddered from head to foot—­a sharp irrepressible shudder!) ‘I’ll niver forgive—­niver!’

‘Niver’s a long word,’ said Kester, musingly.  ’A could horsewhip him, or cast stones at him, or duck him mysel’; but, lass! niver’s a long word!’