But when she saw Philip again he told her that Simpson was dead; and passed on from what he had reason to think would be an unpleasant subject to her. Thus he never learnt how her conduct might have been more gentle and relenting than her words--words which came up into his memory at a future time, with full measure of miserable significance. In general, Sylvia was gentle and good enough; but Philip wanted her to be shy and tender with him, and this she was not. She spoke to him, her pretty eyes looking straight and composedly at him. She consulted him like the family friend that he was: she met him quietly in all the arrangements for the time of their marriage, which she looked upon more as a change of home, as the leaving of Haytersbank, as it would affect her mother, than in any more directly personal way. Philip was beginning to feel, though not as yet to acknowledge, that the fruit he had so inordinately longed for was but of the nature of an apple of Sodom. Long ago, lodging in widow Rose's garret, he had been in the habit of watching some pigeons that were kept by a neighbour; the flock disported themselves on the steep tiled roofs just opposite to the attic window, and insensibly Philip grew to know their ways, and one pretty, soft little dove was somehow perpetually associated in his mind with his idea of his cousin Sylvia. The pigeon would sit in one particular place, sunning herself, and puffing out her feathered breast, with all the blue and rose-coloured lights gleaming in the morning rays, cooing softly to herself as she dressed her plumage. Philip fancied that he saw the same colours in a certain piece of shot silk--now in the shop; and none other seemed to him so suitable for his darling's wedding-dress. He carried enough to make a gown, and gave it to her one evening, as she sate on the grass just outside the house, half attending to her mother, half engaged in knitting stockings for her scanty marriage outfit. He was glad that the sun was not gone down, thus allowing him to display the changing colours in fuller light. Sylvia admired it duly; even Mrs. Robson was pleased and attracted by the soft yet brilliant hues. Philip whispered to Sylvia--(he took delight in whispers,--she, on the contrary, always spoke to him in her usual tone of voice)-- 'Thou'lt look so pretty in it, sweetheart,--o' Thursday fortnight!' 'Thursday fortnight. On the fourth yo're thinking on. But I cannot wear it then,--I shall be i' black.' 'Not on that day, sure!' said Philip. 'Why not? There's nought t' happen on that day for t' make me forget feyther. I couldn't put off my black, Philip,--no, not to save my life! Yon silk is just lovely, far too good for the likes of me,--and I'm sure I'm much beholden to yo'; and I'll have it made up first of any gown after last April come two years,--but, oh, Philip, I cannot put off my mourning!' 'Not for our wedding-day!' said Philip, sadly.