Mysterious Tidings

That very evening Kester came, humbly knocking at the kitchen-door.
Phoebe opened it. He asked to see Sylvia.

'A know not if she'll see thee,' said Phoebe. 'There's no makin' her
out; sometimes she's for one thing, sometimes she's for another.' 'She bid me come and see her,' said Kester. 'Only this mornin', at
missus' buryin', she telled me to come.' So Phoebe went off to inform Sylvia that Kester was there; and
returned with the desire that he would walk into the parlour. An
instant after he was gone, Phoebe heard him return, and carefully
shut the two doors of communication between the kitchen and
sitting-room.

Sylvia was in the latter when Kester came in, holding her baby close
to her; indeed, she seldom let it go now-a-days to any one else,
making Nancy's place quite a sinecure, much to Phoebe's indignation.

Sylvia's face was shrunk, and white, and thin; her lovely eyes alone
retained the youthful, almost childlike, expression. She went up to
Kester, and shook his horny hand, she herself trembling all over.

'Don't talk to me of her,' she said hastily. 'I cannot stand it.
It's a blessing for her to be gone, but, oh----' She began to cry, and then cheered herself up, and swallowed down
her sobs.

'Kester,' she went on, hastily, 'Charley Kinraid isn't dead; dost ta
know? He's alive, and he were here o' Tuesday--no, Monday, was it? I
cannot tell--but he were here!' 'A knowed as he weren't dead. Every one is a-speaking on it. But a
didn't know as thee'd ha' seen him. A took comfort i' thinkin' as
thou'd ha' been wi' thy mother a' t' time as he were i' t' place.' 'Then he's gone?' said Sylvia.