That was Monday, and on Tuesday morning Philip came again. He was very quiet, but the heart has ears, and Kate heard him. Pete's letter had reached him, and she could see his white face. After a few words of commonplace conversation, he drew Pete out of the house. What had he got to say? Was he thinking that Pete must be stopped at all hazards? Was he about to make a clean breast of it? Was he going to tell all? Impossible! He could not; he dared not; it was _her_ secret. Pete came back to the house alone, looking serious and even sad. Kate heard him exchange a few words with her father as they passed through the lobby to the kitchen. Cæsar was saying-- “Stand on your own head, sir, that's my advice to you.” In the intensity of her torment she could not rest. She sent for Pete. “What about Philip?” she said. “Is he coming? What has he been telling you?” “Bad news, Kate--very bad,” said Pete. There was a fearful silence for a moment. It was like the awful hush at the instant when the tide turns, and you feel as if something has happened to the world. Then Kate hardened her face and said, “What is it?” “He's ill, and wants to go away in a week. He can't come to the wedding,'' said Pete. “Is that all?” said Kate. Her heart leapt for joy. She could not help it--she laughed. She saw through Philip's excuse. It was only his subterfuge--he thought Pete would not marry without him. “Aw, but you never seen the like, though, Kirry,” said Pete; “he was that white and wake and narvous. Work and worry, that's the size of it. There's nothing done in this world without paying the price of it, and that's as true as gospel. 'The sea's calling me, Pete,' says he, and then he laughed, but it was the same as if a ghost itself was grinning.” In the selfishness of her enfeebled spirit, Kate still rejoiced. Philip was suffering. It was another assurance that he would come to her relief. “When does he go?” she asked. “On Tuesday,” answered Pete. “Isn't there a way of getting a Bishop's license to marry in a week?” said Kate. “But will you, though?” said Pete, with a shout of joy. “Ask Philip first. No use changing if Philip can't come.” “He shall--he must. I won't take No.” “You may kiss me now,” said Kate, and Pete plucked her up into his arms and kissed her. She was heart-dead to him yet, from the wound that Philip had dealt her, but at the touch of his lips a feeling of horror seemed to cramp all her limbs. With a shudder she crept down in the bed and hid her face, hating herself, loathing herself, wishing herself dead. He stood a moment by her side, crying like a big boy in his great happiness. “I don't know in the world what she sees in me to be so fond of me, but that's the way with the women always, God bless them!”