And now they came to the stile which had filled Philip's eye for
some minutes past, though neither of the others had perceived they
were so near it; the stile which led to Moss Brow from the road into
the fields that sloped down to Haystersbank. Here they would leave
Molly, and now would begin the delicious _tete-a-tete_ walk, which
Philip always tried to make as lingering as possible. 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,