To-day he was anxious to show his sympathy with Sylvia, as far as he could read what was passing in her mind; but how was he to guess the multitude of tangled thoughts in that unseen receptacle?
A resolution to be good, if she could, and always to be thinking on death, so that what seemed to her now as simply impossible, might come true--that she might 'dread the grave as little as her bed'; a wish that Philip were not coming home with her; a wonder if the specksioneer really had killed a man, an idea which made her shudder; yet from the awful fascination about it, her imagination was compelled to dwell on the tall, gaunt figure, and try to recall the wan countenance; a hatred and desire of revenge on the press-gang, so vehement that it sadly militated against her intention of trying to be good; all these notions, and wonders, and fancies, were whirling about in Sylvia's brain, and at one of their promptings she spoke,-- 'How many miles away is t' Greenland seas ?--I mean, how long do they take to reach ?' 'I don't know; ten days or a fortnight, or more, maybe.

I'll ask.' 'Oh! feyther 'll tell me all about it.

He's been there many a time.' 'I say, Sylvie! My aunt said I were to give you lessons this winter i' writing and ciphering.

I can begin to come up now, two evenings, maybe, a week.

T' shop closes early after November comes in.' Sylvia did not like learning, and did not want him for her teacher; so she answered in a dry little tone,-- 'It'll use a deal o' candle-light; mother 'll not like that.