had gone into the parlour about which Philip spoke so much was at the time of the press-gang riot, when she had fainted from terror and excitement; the second was on that night of misery when she and her mother had gone in to Monkshaven, to bid her father farewell before he was taken to York; in that room, on that night, she had first learnt something of the fatal peril in which he stood.  She could not show the bright shy curiosity about her future dwelling that is common enough with girls who are going to be married.  All she could do was to restrain herself from sighing, and listen patiently, when he talked on the subject.  In time he saw that she shrank from it; so he held his peace, and planned and worked for her in silence,—­smiling to himself as he looked on each completed arrangement for her pleasure or comfort; and knowing well that her happiness was involved in what fragments of peace and material comfort might remain to her mother.

The wedding-day drew near apace.  It was Philip’s plan that after they had been married in Kirk Moorside church, he and his Sylvia, his cousin, his love, his wife, should go for the day to Robin Hood’s Bay, returning in the evening to the house behind the shop in the market-place.  There they were to find Bell Robson installed in her future home; for Haytersbank Farm was to be given up to the new tenant on the very day of the wedding.  Sylvia would not be married any sooner; she said that she must stay there till the very last; and had said it with such determination that Philip had desisted from all urgency at once.

He had told her that all should be settled for her mother’s comfort during their few hours’ absence; otherwise Sylvia would not have gone at all.  He told her he should ask Hester, who was always so good and kind—­who never yet had said him nay, to go to church with them as bridesmaid—­for Sylvia would give no thought or care to anything but her mother—­and that they would leave her at Haytersbank as they returned from church; she would manage Mrs Robson’s removal—­she would do this—­do that—­do everything.  Such friendly confidence had Philip in Hester’s willingness and tender skill.  Sylvia acquiesced at length, and Philip took upon himself to speak to Hester on the subject.

‘Hester,’ said he, one day when he was preparing to go home after the shop was closed; ‘would yo’ mind stopping a bit?  I should like to show yo’ the place now it’s done up; and I’ve a favour to ask on yo’ besides.’  He was so happy he did not see her shiver all over.  She hesitated just a moment before she answered,—­

‘I’ll stay, if thou wishes it, Philip.  But I’m no judge o’ fashions and such like.’

‘Thou’rt a judge o’ comfort, and that’s what I’ve been aiming at.  I were niver so comfortable in a’ my life as when I were a lodger at thy house,’ said he, with brotherly tenderness in his tone.  ’If my mind had been at ease I could ha’ said I niver were happier in all my days than under thy roof; and I know it were thy doing for the most part.  So come along, Hester, and tell me if there’s aught more I can put in for Sylvie.’