He watched her laboriously climb the stairs, and vanish out of sight; and sat down with a sudden feeling of extreme bodily weakness.

The door of communication between the parlour and the shop was opened.  That was the first event of which Philip took note; but Phoebe had come in unawares to him, with the intention of removing the breakfast things on her return from market, and seeing them unused, and knowing that Sylvia had sate up all night with her mother, she had gone back to the kitchen.  Philip had neither seen nor heard her.

Now Coulson came in, amazed at Hepburn’s non-appearance in the shop.

‘Why!  Philip, what’s ado?  How ill yo’ look, man!’ exclaimed he, thoroughly alarmed by Philip’s ghastly appearance.  ’What’s the matter?’

‘I!’ said Philip, slowly gathering his thoughts.  ’Why should there be anything the matter?’

His instinct, quicker to act than his reason, made him shrink from his misery being noticed, much more made any subject for explanation or sympathy.

‘There may be nothing the matter wi’ thee,’ said Coulson, ’but thou’s the look of a corpse on thy face.  I was afeared something was wrong, for it’s half-past nine, and thee so punctual!’

He almost guarded Philip into the shop, and kept furtively watching him, and perplexing himself with Philip’s odd, strange ways.

Hester, too, observed the heavy broken-down expression on Philip’s ashen face, and her heart ached for him; but after that first glance, which told her so much, she avoided all appearance of noticing or watching.  Only a shadow brooded over her sweet, calm face, and once or twice she sighed to herself.

It was market-day, and people came in and out, bringing their store of gossip from the country, or the town—­from the farm or the quay-side.

Among the pieces of news, the rescue of the smack the night before furnished a large topic; and by-and-by Philip heard a name that startled him into attention.

The landlady of a small public-house much frequented by sailors was talking to Coulson.

’There was a sailor aboard of her as knowed Kinraid by sight, in Shields, years ago; and he called him by his name afore they were well out o’ t’ river.  And Kinraid was no ways set up, for all his lieutenant’s uniform (and eh! but they say he looks handsome in it!); but he tells ’m all about it—­how he was pressed aboard a man-o’-war, an’ for his good conduct were made a warrant officer, boatswain, or something!’

All the people in the shop were listening now; Philip alone seemed engrossed in folding up a piece of cloth, so as to leave no possible chance of creases in it; yet he lost not a syllable of the good woman’s narration.

She, pleased with the enlarged audience her tale had attracted, went on with fresh vigour.