Sylvie, my lass, a'm main and sorry a were so short wi' thee last neet; a ax thy pardon, lass, a were cross to thee, and sent thee to thy bed wi' a sore heart.

Thou munnot think on it again, but forgie me, now a'm leavin' thee.' 'Oh, feyther! feyther!' was all Sylvia could say; and at last they had to make as though they would have used force to separate her from their prisoner.

Philip took her hand, and softly led her back to her weeping mother.
For some time nothing was to be heard in the little farmhouse kitchen but the sobbing and wailing of the women.

Philip stood by silent, thinking, as well as he could, for his keen sympathy with their grief, what had best be done next.

Kester, after some growls at Sylvia for having held back the uplifted arm which he thought might have saved Daniel by a well-considered blow on his captors as they entered the house, went back into his shippen--his cell for meditation and consolation, where he might hope to soothe himself before going out to his afternoon's work; labour which his master had planned for him that very morning, with a strange foresight, as Kester thought, for the job was one which would take him two or three days without needing any further directions than those he had received, and by the end of that time he thought that his master would be at liberty again.