Long ago, lodging in widow Rose’s garret, he had been in the habit of watching some pigeons that were kept by a neighbour; the flock disported themselves on the steep tiled roofs just opposite to the attic window, and insensibly Philip grew to know their ways, and one pretty, soft little dove was somehow perpetually associated in his mind with his idea of his cousin Sylvia.  The pigeon would sit in one particular place, sunning herself, and puffing out her feathered breast, with all the blue and rose-coloured lights gleaming in the morning rays, cooing softly to herself as she dressed her plumage.  Philip fancied that he saw the same colours in a certain piece of shot silk—­now in the shop; and none other seemed to him so suitable for his darling’s wedding-dress.  He carried enough to make a gown, and gave it to her one evening, as she sate on the grass just outside the house, half attending to her mother, half engaged in knitting stockings for her scanty marriage outfit.  He was glad that the sun was not gone down, thus allowing him to display the changing colours in fuller light.  Sylvia admired it duly; even Mrs. Robson was pleased and attracted by the soft yet brilliant hues.  Philip whispered to Sylvia—­(he took delight in whispers,—­she, on the contrary, always spoke to him in her usual tone of voice)—­

‘Thou’lt look so pretty in it, sweetheart,—­o’ Thursday fortnight!’

’Thursday fortnight.  On the fourth yo’re thinking on.  But I cannot wear it then,—­I shall be i’ black.’

‘Not on that day, sure!’ said Philip.

‘Why not?  There’s nought t’ happen on that day for t’ make me forget feyther.  I couldn’t put off my black, Philip,—­no, not to save my life!  Yon silk is just lovely, far too good for the likes of me,—­and I’m sure I’m much beholden to yo’; and I’ll have it made up first of any gown after last April come two years,—­but, oh, Philip, I cannot put off my mourning!’

‘Not for our wedding-day!’ said Philip, sadly.

’No, lad, I really cannot.  I’m just sorry about it, for I see thou’rt set upon it; and thou’rt so kind and good, I sometimes think I can niver be thankful enough to thee.  When I think on what would ha’ become of mother and me if we hadn’t had thee for a friend i’ need, I’m noane ungrateful, Philip; tho’ I sometimes fancy thou’rt thinking I am.’

‘I don’t want yo’ to be grateful, Sylvie,’ said poor Philip, dissatisfied, yet unable to explain what he did want; only knowing that there was something he lacked, yet fain would have had.

As the marriage-day drew near, all Sylvia’s care seemed to be for her mother; all her anxiety was regarding the appurtenances of the home she was leaving.  In vain Philip tried to interest her in details of his improvements or contrivances in the new home to which he was going to take her.  She did not tell him; but the idea of the house behind the shop was associated in her mind with two times of discomfort and misery.  The first time she