Before it was light on Tuesday morning, Bell was astir.
'It's very early, mother,' said weary, sleepy Sylvia, dreading returning consciousness.
'Ay, lass!' said Bell, in a brisk, cheerful tone; 'but he'll, maybe, be home to-night, and I'se bound to have all things ready for him.' 'Anyhow,' said Sylvia, sitting up in bed, 'he couldn't come home to-night.' 'Tut, lass! thou doesn't know how quick a man comes home to wife and child.

I'll be a' ready at any rate.' She hurried about in a way which Sylvia wondered to see; till at length she fancied that perhaps her mother did so to drive away thought.

Every place was cleaned; there was scarce time allowed for breakfast; till at last, long before mid-day, all the work was done, and the two sat down to their spinning-wheels.

Sylvia's spirits sank lower and lower at each speech of her mother's, from whose mind all fear seemed to have disappeared, leaving only a strange restless kind of excitement.
'It's time for t' potatoes,' said Bell, after her wool had snapped many a time from her uneven tread.
'Mother,' said Sylvia, 'it's but just gone ten!' 'Put 'em on,' said Bell, without attending to the full meaning of her daughter's words.

'It'll, maybe, hasten t' day on if we get dinner done betimes.' 'But Kester is in t' Far Acre field, and he'll not be home till noon.' This seemed to settle matters for a while; but then Bell pushed her wheel away, and began searching for her hood and cloak.