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.”