Philip came to the rescue.
'Aunt,' said he, 'the clock has stopped; can you tell me where t' find t' key, and I'll wind it up.' 'T' key,' said she, hurriedly, 't' key, it's behind th' big Bible on yon shelf.

But I'd rayther thou wouldn't touch it, lad; it's t' master's work, and he distrusts folk meddling wi' it.' Day after day there was this constant reference to her dead husband.
In one sense it was a blessing; all the circumstances attendant on his sad and untimely end were swept out of her mind along with the recollection of the fact itself.

She referred to him as absent, and had always some plausible way of accounting for it, which satisfied her own mind; and, accordingly they fell into the habit of humouring her, and speaking of him as gone to Monkshaven, or afield, or wearied out, and taking a nap upstairs, as her fancy led her to believe for the moment.

But this forgetfulness, though happy for herself, was terrible for her child.

It was a constant renewing of Sylvia's grief, while her mother could give her no sympathy, no help, or strength in any circumstances that arose out of this grief.
She was driven more and more upon Philip; his advice and his affection became daily more necessary to her.
Kester saw what would be the end of all this more clearly than Sylvia did herself; and, impotent to hinder what he feared and disliked, he grew more and more surly every day.