“'Deed you are, though, and always have been,” said Grannie, “and I'm saying it before Pete here, that ought to know and doesn't.” “Don't I, though?” came in the other voice--the resounding voice--the voice full of laughter and tears together. “But I do that, Grannie, same as if I'd been here and seen it. Lave it to me to know Phil Christian. I've summered and wintered the man, haven't I? He's timber that doesn't start, mother, blow high, blow low.” Kate heard another broken sound as of painful protest, and then with a sickening sense she covered up her head that she might hear no more. XII. 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.”