The first time she had gone into the parlour about which Philip spoke so much was at the time of the press-gang riot, when she had fainted from terror and excitement; the second was on that night of misery when she and her mother had gone in to Monkshaven, to bid her father farewell before he was taken to York; in that room, on that night, she had first learnt something of the fatal peril in which he stood.

She could not show the bright shy curiosity about her future dwelling that is common enough with girls who are going to be married.

All she could do was to restrain herself from sighing, and listen patiently, when he talked on the subject.

In time he saw that she shrank from it; so he held his peace, and planned and worked for her in silence,--smiling to himself as he looked on each completed arrangement for her pleasure or comfort; and knowing well that her happiness was involved in what fragments of peace and material comfort might remain to her mother.
The wedding-day drew near apace.

It was Philip's plan that after they had been married in Kirk Moorside church, he and his Sylvia, his cousin, his love, his wife, should go for the day to Robin Hood's Bay, returning in the evening to the house behind the shop in the market-place.