ut neither
Bell nor Sylvia were aware of this. The former had lost all
perception of what was not immediately before her; the latter shrank
from all encounters of any kind with a sore heart, and sensitive
avoidance of everything that could make her a subject of remark. So
the poor afflicted people at Haytersbank knew little of Monkshaven
news. What little did come to their ears came through Dolly Reid,
when she returned from selling the farm produce of the week; and
often, indeed, even then she found Sylvia too much absorbed in other
cares or thoughts to listen to her gossip. So no one had ever named
that Simpson was supposed to be dying till Philip began on the
subject one evening. Sylvia's face suddenly flashed into glow and
life.

'He's dying, is he? t' earth is well rid on such a fellow!'

'Eh, Sylvie, that's a hard speech o' thine!' said Philip; 'it gives
me but poor heart to ask a favour of thee!'

'If it's aught about Simpson,' replied she, and then she interrupted
herself. 'But say on; it were ill-mannered in me for t' interrupt
yo'.'

'Thou would be sorry to see him, I think, Sylvie. He cannot get over
the way, t' folk met him, and pelted him when he came back fra'
York,--and he's weak and faint, and beside himself at times; and
he'll lie a dreaming, and a-fancying they're all at him again,
hooting, and yelling, and pelting him.'

'I'm glad on 't,' said Sylvia; 'it's t' best news I've heered for
many a day,--he, to turn again' feyther, who gave him money fo t'
get a lodging that night, when he'd no place to go to. It were his
evidence as hung feyther; and he's rightly punished for it now.'

'For a' that,--and he's done a vast o' wrong beside, he's dying now,
Sylvie!'

'Well! let him die--it's t' best thing he could do!'

'But he's lying i' such dree poverty,--and niver a friend to go near
him,--niver a person to speak a kind word t' him.'

'It seems as yo've been speaking wi' him, at any rate,' said Sylvia,
turning round on Philip.

'Ay. He sent for me by Nell Manning, th' old beggar-woman, who
sometimes goes in and makes his bed for him, poor wretch,--he's
lying in t' ruins of th' cow-house of th' Mariners' Arms, Sylvie.'

'Well!' said she, in the same hard, dry tone.

'And I went and fetched th' parish doctor, for I thought he'd ha'
died before my face,--he was so wan, and ashen-grey, so thin, too,
his eyes seem pushed out of his bony face.'

'That last time--feyther's eyes were starting, wi