The little cunning arts of her sex, the small deceits in which she had disguised herself fell away from her now. She said to herself, “I will stop the nonsense about the marriage with Pete.” It was mean, it was foolish, it was miserable trifling, it was wicked, it was a waste of life--above all, it was doing a great, great wrong to her love of Philip! How could she ever have thought of it? Next morning she was up and was dressing when Grannie came into the room with a cup of tea. “I feel so much better,” she said “that I think I'll go to Douglas by the coach today, mother.” “Do, bogh,” said Grannie cheerfully, “and Pete shall go with you.” “Oh, no; I must be quite alone, mother.” “Aw, aw! A lil errand, maybe! Shopping is it? Presents, eh? Take your tay, then.” And Grannie rolled the blind, saying, “A beautiful morning you'll have for it, too. I can see the spire as plain as plain.” Then, turning about, “Did you hear the bells this morning, Kitty?” “Why, what bells, mammy?” said Kate, through a mouthful of bread and butter. “The bells for Christian Killip. Her old sweetheart took her to church at last. He wouldn't get rest at your father till he did--and her baby two years for Christmas. But what d'ye think, now? Robbie left her at the church door, and he's off by the Ramsey packet for England. Aw, dear, he did, though. 'You can make me marry her,' said he, 'but you can't make me live with her,' he said, and he was away down the road like the dust.” “I don't think I'll go to Douglas to-day, mother,” said Kate in a broken voice. “I'm not so very well, after all.” “Aw, the bogh!” said Grannie. “Making too sure of herself, was she? It's the way with them all when they're mending.” With cheerful protestations Grannie helped her back to bed, and then went off with an anxious face to tell Cæsar that she was more ill than ever. She was ill indeed; but her worst illness was of the heart. “If I go to him and tell him,” she thought, “he will marry me--yes. No fear that he will leave me at the church door or elsewhere. He will stay with me. We will be man and wife to the last. The world will know nothing. But _I_ will know. As long as I live I will remember that he only sacrificed himself to repair a fault That shall never be--never, never!” Cæsar came up in great alarm. He seemed to be living in hourly dread that some obstacle would arise at the last moment to stop the marriage. “Chut, woman!” he said play-. fully. “Have a good heart, Kitty. The sun's not going down on you yet at all.” That night there were loud voices from the bar-room. The talk was of the marriage which had taken place in the morning, and of its strange and painful sequel. John the Clerk was saying, “But you'd be hearing of the by-child, it's like?” “Never a word,” said somebody.