'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.'
'And he'd shrink fra' dying wi' a' his sins on his head?' said Sylvia, almost exultingly.
Philip shook his head. 'He said this world had been too strong for him, and men too hard upon him; he could niver do any good here, and he thought he should, maybe, find folks i' t' next place more merciful.'
'He'll meet feyther theere,' said Sylvia, still hard and bitter.
'He's a poor ignorant creature, and doesn't seem to know rightly who he's like to meet; only he seems glad to get away fra' Monkshaven folks; he were really hurt, I am afeared, that night, Sylvie,—and he speaks as if he'd had hard times of it ever since he were a child,—and he talks as if he were really grieved for t' part t' lawyers made him take at th' trial,—they made him speak, against his will, he says.'
'Couldn't he ha' bitten his tongue out?' asked Sylvia. 'It's fine talking o' sorrow when the thing is done!'
'Well, anyhow he's sorry now; and he's not long for to live. And, Sylvie, he bid me ask thee, if, for the sake of all that is dear to thee both here, and i' th' world to come, thou'd go wi' me, and just say to him that thou forgives him his part that day.'