“Did you ever dream I wouldn't?” she said. Her face was a smile, her voice was an eager whisper. “I have something to say to you, Kate--it is something serious.” “Is it so?” she said. “So very serious?” She was laughing and blushing together. Didn't she know what he was going to say? Didn't she guess what this serious something must be? To prolong the delicious suspense before hearing it, she pretended to be absorbed in the things about her. She looked aside at the sea, and up at the banks, and down at the little dubbs of salt water as she skipped across them, crying out at sight of the sea-holly, the anemone, and the sea-mouse shining like fire, but still holding to Philip's arm and bounding and throbbing on it. “You must be quiet, dear, and listen,” he said. “Oh, I'll be good--so very good,” she said. “But look! only look at the white horses out yonder--far out beyond the steamer. Davy's putting on the coppers for the parson, eh?” She caught the grave expression of Philip's face, and drew herself up with pretended severity, saying, “Be quiet, Katey. Behave yourself. Philip wants to talk to you--seriously--very seriously.” Then, leaning forward with head aside to look up into his face, she said, “Well, sir, why don't you begin? Perhaps you think I'll cry out. I won't--I promise you I won't.” But she grew uneasy at the settled gravity of his face, and the joy gradually died off her own. When Philip spoke, his voice was like a cracked echo of itself. “You remember what you said, Kate, when I brought you that last letter from Kimberley--that if next morning you found it was a mistake------” “_Is_ it a mistake?” she asked. “Becalm, Kate.” “I am quite calm, dear. I remember I said it would kill me. But I was very foolish. I should not say so now. Is Pete alive?” She spoke without a tremor, and he answered in a husky whisper, “Yes.” Then, in a breaking voice, he said, “We were very foolish Kate--jumping so hastily to a conclusion was very foolish-it was worse than foolish, it was wicked. I half doubted the letter at the time, but, God forgive me, I _wanted_ to believe it, and so----” “I am glad Pete is living,” she said quietly. He was aghast at her calmness. The irregular lines in his face showed the disordered state of his soul, but she walked by his side without the quiver of an eyelid, or a tinge of colour more than usual. Had she understood? “Look!” he said, and he drew Pete's telegram from his pocket and gave it to her. She opened it easily, and he watched her while she read it, prepared for a cry, and ready to put his arms about her if she fell. But there was not a movement save the motion of her fingers, not a sound except the crinking of the thin paper. He turned his head away. The sun was shining; there was a steely light on the firs, and here and there a white breaker was rising like a sea-bird out of the blue surface of the sea. “Well?” she said.