Next morning Kate set out to church for her churching. Her household duties had lost their interest by this time, and she left Nancy to cook the dinner. Pete had volunteered to take charge of the child. This he began to do by establishing himself with his pipe in an armchair by the cradle, and looking steadfastly down into it until the little one awoke. Then he rocked it, rummaged his memory for a nursery song to quiet it, and smoked and sang together.

The sun was shining in at the doorway, and a man's shadow fell across the cradle-head. It was Philip. Pete put his mouth out into the form of an unspoken “Hush,” and Philip sat down in silence, while Pete went on with his smoke and his song.

Pete had got to the middle of the verse about “the worthy gentleman,” when the low whine in the cradle lengthened to a long breath and stopped.

“Gone off at last, God bless it,” said Pete. “And how's yourself, Philip? And how goes the petition?”

With his head on his hand, Philip was gazing absently into the fire, and he did not hear.

“How goes the petition?” said Pete.

“It was that I came to speak of,” said Philip. “Sorry to say it has had no effect but a bad one. It has only drawn attention to the fact that Manx fishermen pay no harbour dues.”

“And right too,” said Pete. “The harbours are our fathers' harbours, and were freed to us forty years ago.”

“Nevertheless,” said Philip, “the dues are to be demanded. The Governor has issued an order.”

“Then we'll rise against it—every fisherman in the island,” said Pete. “And when they're making you Dempster, you'll back us up in the Tynwald Coort.”

“Take care, Pete, take care,” said Philip.

Then Kate came in from church, and Pete welcomed her with a shout. Philip rose and bowed in silence. The marks of the prayers of the week were on her face, but they had brought her no comfort. She had been constantly promising herself consolation from religion, but every fresh exercise of devotion had seemed to tear open the wound from which she bled to death.

She removed her cloak and stepped to the cradle. The child was sleeping peacefully, but she convinced herself that it must be unwell. Her own hands were cold and moist, and when she touched the child she thought its skin was clammy. Presently her hands became hot and dry, and when she touched the child again she thought its forehead was feverish.

“I'm sure she's ill,” she said.

“Chut! love,” said Pete; “no more ill than I am.”

But, to calm her fears, he went off for the doctor. The doctor was away in the country, and was not likely to be back for hours. Kate's fears increased. Every time she looked at the child she applied to it the symptoms of her own condition.

“My child is dying—I'm sure it is,” she cried.

“Nonsense, darling,” said Pete. “Only an hour ago it was looking up as imperent as a tomtit.”

At last a new terror seized her, and she cried, “My child is dying unbaptized.”

“Well, we'll soon mend that, love,” said Pete. “I'll be going off for the parson.” And he caught up his hat and went out.

He called on Parson Quiggin, who promised to follow immediately. Then he went on to Sulby to fetch CÆsar and Grannie and some others, having no fear for the child's life, but some hope of banishing Kate's melancholy by the merriment of a christening feast.

Meanwhile, Philip and Kate were alone with the little one, save in the intervals of Nancy's coming and going between the hall and the kitchen. She was restless, and full of expectation, starting at every sound and every step. He could see that she had gone whole nights without sleep, and was passing through an existence that was burning itself away.

Do what he would to explain her sufferings as the common results of childbirth, he could not help resolving them in the old flattering solution. She was paying the penalty of having married the wrong man. And she was to blame. Whatever the compulsion put upon her, she ought to have withstood it. There was no situation in life from which it was not possible to escape. Had he not found a way out of a situation essentially the same? Thus a certain high pride in his own conduct took possession of him even in the presence of Kate's pain.

But his tenderness fought with his self-righteousness. He looked at her piteous face and his strength almost ebbed away. She looked up into his eyes and affectionate pity almost overwhelmed him. Once or twice she seemed about to say something, but she did not speak, and he said little. Yet it wanted all his resolution not to take her in his arms and comfort her, not to mingle his tears with hers, not to tell her of six months spent in vain in the effort to wipe her out of his heart, not to whisper of cheerless days and of nights made desolate with the repetition of her name. But no, he would be stronger than that. It was not yet too late to walk the path of honour. He would stand no longer between husband and wife.

Pete came back, bringing Grannie and CÆsar. The parson arrived soon after them. Kate was sitting with the child in her lap, and brooding over it like a bird above its nest. The child was still sleeping the sleep of health and innocence, but the mother's eyes were wild.

“Bogh, bogh!” said Grannie, and she kissed her daughter. Kate made no response. Nancy Joe grew red about the eyelids and began to blow her nose.

“Here's the prazon, darling,” whispered Pete, and Kate rose to her feet. The company rose with her, and stood in a half-circle before the fire. It was now between daylight and dark, and the firelight flashed in their faces.

“Are the godfather and godmothers present?” the parson asked.

“Mr. Christian will stand godfather, parzon; and Nancy and Grannie will be godmothers.”

Nancy took the child out of Kate's arms, and the service for private baptism began with the tremendous words, “Dearly beloved, forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in si——”

The parson stopped. Kate had staggered and almost fallen. Pete put his arm around her to keep her up, and then the service went on.

Presently the parson turned to Philip with a softening voice and an inclination of the head.

“Dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of 'the same, and the carnal desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow nor be led by them?”

And Philip answered, in a firm, low voice, “I renounce them all.”

The parson took the child from Nancy. “Name this child.”

Nancy looked at Kate, but Kate, who was breathing violently, gave no sign.

“Kate,” whispered Pete; “Kate, of coorse.”

“Katherine,” said Nancy, and in that name the child was baptized.

Dr. Mylechreest came in as the service ended. Grannie held little Katherine up to him, and he controlled his face and looked at her.

“There's not much amiss with the child,” he said.

“I knew it,” shouted Pete.

“But perhaps the mother is a little weak and nervous,” he added quietly.

“Coorse she is, the bogh,” cried Pete.

“Let her see more company,” said the doctor.

“She shall,” said Pete.

“If that doesn't do, send her away for awhile.”

“I will.”

“Fresh scenes, fresh society; out of the island, by preference.”

“I'm willing.”

“She'll come back another woman.”

“I'll put up with the same one,” said Pete; and, while the company laughed, he flung open the door, and cried “Come in!” and half a dozen men who had been waiting outside trooped into the hall. They entered with shy looks because of the presence of great people.

“Now for a pull of jough, Nancy,” cried Pete.

“Not too much excitement either,” said the doctor, and with that warning he departed. The parson went with him. Philip had slipped out first, unawares to anybody. Grannie carried little Katherine to the kitchen, and bathed her before the fire. Kate was propped up with pillows in the armchair in the corner. Then Nancy brought the ale, and Pete welcomed it with a shout. CÆsar looked alarmed and rose to go.

“The drink's your own, sir,” said Pete; “stop and taste it.”

But CÆsar couldn't stay; it would scarcely be proper.

“You don't christen your first granddaughter every day,” said Pete. “Enjoy yourself while you're alive, sir; you'll be a long time dead.”

CÆsar disappeared, but the rest of the company took Pete's counsel, and began to make themselves comfortable.

“The last christening I was at was yesterday,” said John the Clerk. “It was Christian Killip's little one, before she was married, and it took the water same as any other child.”

“The last christening I was at was my own,” said Black Tom, “when I was made an in inheriter, but I've never inherited yet.”

“That's truth enough,” said an asthmatic voice from the backstairs.

“Well, the last christening I was at was at Kimberley,” said Pete, “and I was the parzon myself that day. Yes, though, Parzon Pete. And godfather and godmother as well, and the baby was Peter Quilliam, too. Aw, it was no laughing matter at all. There's always a truck of women about a compound, hanging on to the boys like burrs. Dirty little trousses of a rule, but human creatures for all. One of them had a child by somebody, and then she came to die, and couldn't take rest because it hadn't been christened. There wasn't a pazon for fifty miles, anywhere, and it was night-time, too, and the woman was stretched by the camp-fire and sinking. 'What's to be done?' says the men. I'll do it,' says I, and I did. One of the fellows got a breakfast can of water out of the river, and I dipped my hand in it. 'What's the name,' says I; but the poor soul was too far gone for spaking. So I gave the child my own name, though I didn't know the mother from Noah's aunt, and the big chaps standing round bareheaded began to blubber like babies. 'I baptize thee, Peter Quilliam, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.' Then the girl died happy and aisy, and what for shouldn't she? The words were the same, and the water was the same, and if the hand wasn't as clane as usual, maybe Him that's above wouldn't bother about the diff'rance.”

Kate got up with a flush on her cheeks. The room had become too close. Pete helped her into the parlour, where a bright fire was burning, then propped and wrapped her up afresh, and, at her own entreaty, returned to his guests. The company had increased by this time, and there were women and girls among them. They went on to sing and to playt and at last to dance.

Kate heard them. Through the closed door between the hall and the parlour their merriment came to her. At intervals Pete put in his head, brimming over with laughter, and cried in a loud whisper, “Did you hear that, Kate? It's rich!”

At length Philip came, too, with his hat in one hand and a cardboard box in the other. “The godfather's present to little Katherine,” he said.

Kate opened the lid, and drew out a child's hood in scarlet plush.

“You are very good,” she said vacantly.

“Don't let us talk of goodness,” he answered; and he turned to go.

“Wait,” she faltered. “I have something to say to you. Shut the door.”