'May I go in there,' indicating the kitchen, 'and make her a drop of gruel ?' 'Phoebe shall make it, not you,' said Philip, eagerly preventing her, by going to the kitchen door and giving his orders.

When he turned round again, Sylvia was standing over the fire, leaning her head against the stone mantel-piece for the comparative coolness.
She did not speak at first, or take any notice of him.

He watched her furtively, and saw that she was crying, the tears running down her cheeks, and she too much absorbed in her thoughts to wipe them away with her apron.
While he was turning over in his mind what he could best say to comfort her (his heart, like hers, being almost too full for words), she suddenly looked him full in the face, saying,-- 'Philip! won't they soon let him go?
what can they do to him ?' Her open lips trembled while awaiting his answer, the tears came up and filled her eyes.

It was just the question he had most dreaded; it led to the terror that possessed his own mind, but which he had hoped to keep out of hers.

He hesitated.