She was weak and over-wrought, and she fell asleep as she lay covered. While she slept a babel of meaningless voices kept clashing in her ears, and her own voice haunted her perpetually. When she awoke it was broad morning again, and the house was full of the smell of boiling stock-fish. By that she knew it was another day, and the hour of early breakfast. She heard the click of cups and saucers on the kitchen table, the step of her father coming in from the mill, and then the heartsome voice of Pete talking of the changes in the island since he went away. New houses, promenades, iron piers, breakwaters, lakes, towers—wonderful I extraordinary! tre-menjous!

“But the boys—w here's the Manx boys at all?” said Pete. “Gone like a flight of birds to Austrillya and Cleveland and the Cape, and I don't know where. Not a Manx house now that hasn't one of the boys foreign. And the houses themselves—where's the ould houses and the crofts? Felled, all felled or boarded up. And the boats—where's the boats? Lying rotting at the top of the harbour.”

Grannie's step came into the kitchen, and Pete's loud voice drooped to a whisper. “How's herself this morning, mother?”

“Sleeping quiet and nice when I came downstairs,” said Grannie.

“Will I be seeing her myself to-day, think you?” asked Pete.

“I don't know in the world, but I'll ask,” answered Grannie.

“You're an angel, Grannie,” said Pete, “a reg'lar ould archangel.”

Kate shuddered with a new fear. It was clear that in the eyes of her people the old relations with Pete were to stand. Everybody expected her to marry Pete; everybody seemed anxious to push the marriage on.

Grannie came up with her breakfast, pulled aside the blind, and opened the window.

“Nancy will tidy the room a taste,” she said coaxingly, “and then I shouldn't wonder if you'll be sending for Pete.”

Kate raised a cry of alarm.

“Aw, no harm when a girl's poorly,” said Grannie, “and her promist man for all.”

Kate tried to protest and explain, but courage failed her. She only said, “Not yet, mother. I'm not fit to see him yet.”

“Say no more about it. Not to-day at all—to-morrow maybe,” said Grannie, and Kate clutched at the word, and answered eagerly—

“Yes, tomorrow, mother; to-morrow maybe.”

Before noon Philip had come again. Kate heard his horse's step on the road, trotting hard from the direction of Peel. He drew up at the porch, but did not alight, and Grannie went out to him.

“I'll not come in to-day, Mrs. Cregeen,” he said. “Does she continue to improve?”

“As nice as nice, sir,” said Grannie.

Kate crept out of bed, stole to the window, hid behind the curtains, and listened intently.

“What a mercy all goes well,” he said; Kate could hear the heaving of his breath. “Is Pete about?”

“No, but gone to Ramsey, sir,” said Grannie. “It's like you'll meet him if you are going on to Ballure.”

“I must be getting back to business,” said Philip, and the horse swirled across the road.

“Did you ride from Douglas on purpose, then?” said Grannie, and Philip answered with an audible effort—

“I was anxious. What an escape she has had! I could scarcely sleep last night for thinking of it.”

Kate put her hand to her throat to keep back the cry that was bubbling up, and her mother's voice came thick and deep.

“The Lord's blessing. Master Philip——” she began, but the horse's feet stamped out everything as it leapt to a gallop in going off.

Kate listened where she knelt until the last beat of the hoofs had died away in the distance, and then she crept back to bed and covered up her head in the clothes as before, but with a storm of other feelings. “He loves me,” she told herself with a thrill of the heart. “He loves me—he loves me still! And he will never, never, never see me married to anybody else.”

She felt an immense relief now, and suddenly found strength to think of facing Pete. It even occurred to her to send for him at once, as a first step towards removing the impression that the old relations were to remain. She would be quiet, she would be cold, she would show by her manner that Pete was impossible, she would break the news gently.

Pete came like the light at Nancy's summons. Kate heard him on the stairs whispering with Nancy and breathing heavily. Nancy was hectoring it over him and pulling him about to make him presentable.

“Here,” whispered Nancy, “take the redyng comb and lash your hair out, it's all through-others. And listen—you've got to be quiet. Promise me you'll be quiet. She's wake and low and nervous, so no kissing. D'ye hear me now, no kissing.”

“Aw, kissing makes no noise to spake of, woman,” whispered Pete; and then he was in the room.

Kate saw him come, a towering dark figure between her and the door. He did not speak at first, but slid down to the chair at the foot of the bed, modestly, meekly, reverently, as if he had entered a sanctuary. His hand rested on his knee, and she noticed that the wrist was hairy and tattooed with the three legs of Man.

“Is it you, Pete?” she asked; and then he said in a low tone, almost in a whisper, as if speaking to himself in a hush of awe—

“It's her own voice again! I've heard it in my drames these five years.”

He looked helplessly about him for a moment, fixed his watery eyes on Nancy as if he wanted to burst into sobs but dare not for fear of the noise, then turned on his chair and seemed on the point of taking to flight. But just at that instant his dog, which had followed him into the room, planted its forelegs on the counterpane and looked impudently into Kate's face.

“Down, Dempster, down!” cried Pete; and after that, the ice being broken by the sound of his voice, Pete was his own man once more.

“Is that your dog, Pete?” said Kate.

“Aw, no, Kate, but I'm his man,” said Pete. “He does what he likes with me, anyway. Caught me out in Kimber-ley and fetched me home.”

“Is he old?”

“Old, d'ye say? He's one of the lost ten tribes of dogs, and behaves as if he'd got to inherit the earth.”

She felt Pete's big black eyes shining on her.

“My gracious, Kitty, what a woman you're growing, though!” he said.

“Am I so much changed?” she asked.

“Changed, is it?” he cried. “Gough bless me heart! the nice little thing you were when we used to play fishermen together down at Cornaa Harbour—d'ye remember? The ould kipper-box rolling on a block for a boat at sea—do you mind it? Yourself houlding a bit of a broken broomstick in the rope handle for a mast, and me working the potato-dibber on the ground, first port and then starboard, for rudder and wind and oar and tide. 'Mortal dirty weather this, cap'n?' 'Aw, yes, woman, big sea extraordinary'—d'ye mind it, Kirry!”

Kate tried to laugh a little and to say what a long time ago it was since then. But Pete, being started, laughed uproariously, slapped his knee, and rattled on.

“Up at the mill, too—d'ye remember that now? Yourself with the top of a barrel for a flower basket, holding it 'kimbo at your lil hip and shouting, 'Violets! Swate violets! Fresh violets!'” (He mocked her silvery treble in his lusty baritone and roared with laughter.)

“And then me, woman, d'ye mind me?—me, with the pig-stye gate atop of my head for a fish-board, yelling, 'Mackerel! Fine ladies, fresh ladies, and bellies as big as bishops—Mack-er-el!' Aw, Kirry, Kirry! Aw, the dear ould times gone by! Aw, the changes, the changes!... Did I know you then? Are you asking me did I know you when I found you in the glen? Did I know I was alive, Kitty? Did I know the wind was howling? Did I know my head was going round like a compass, and my heart thumping a hundred and twenty pound to the square inch? Did I kiss you and kiss you while you were lying there useless, and lift you up and hitch your poor limp arms around my neck, and carry you out of the dirty ould tholthan that was going to be the death of you—the first job I was doing on the island, too, coming back to it.... Lord save us, Kitty, what have I done?”

Kate had dropped back on the pillow, and was sobbing as if her heart would break, and seeing this, Nancy fell on Pete with loud reproaches, took the man by the shoulders and his dog by the neck, and pushed both out of the room.

“Out of it,” cried Nancy. “Didn't I tell you to be quiet? You great blethering omathaun, you shall come no more.”

Abashed, ashamed, humiliated, and quiet enough now, Pete went slowly down the stairs.