'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, wild-like, and as if he couldn't meet ours, or bear the sight on our weeping.'
It was a bad look-out for Philip's purpose; but after a pause he went bravely on.
'He's a poor dying creature, anyhow. T' doctor said so, and told him he hadn't many hours, let alone days, to live.'