“Did you tell him that _I_ proposed it?” “Trust me for not forgetting that at all. 'Aw, then,' says he, 'there's no choice left,' he says.” Kate's pale face became paler, the dark circles about her eyes grew yet more dark. “I think I'll go back to bed, mother,” she said in the same toneless voice. Pete helped her to the foot of the stairs. The big, moist eyes were looking at her constantly. She found it hard to keep an equal countenance. “But will you be fit for it, darling?” said Pete. “Why, of course she'll be fit, sir,” said Cæsar. “What girl is ever more than middling the week before she's married?” Next day she persuaded her father to take her to Douglas. She had little errands there that could not be done in Ramsey. The morning was fine but cold. Pete helped her up in the gig, and they drove away. If only she could see Philip, if only Philip could see her, he would know by the look of her face that the marriage was not of her making--that compulsion of some sort was being put on her. She spent four hours going from shop to shop, lingering in the streets, but seeing nothing of Philip. Her step was slow and weary, her features were pinched and starved, but Cæsar could scarcely get her out of the town. At length the daylight began to fail, and then she yielded to his importunities. “How short the days are now,” she said with a sigh, as they ran into the country. “Yes, they are a cock's stride shorter in September,” said Cæsar; “but when a woman once gets shopping, Midsummer day itself won't do--she's wanting the land of the midnight sun.” Pete lifted her out of the gig in darkness at the door of the “Fairy,” and, his great arms being about her, he carried her into the house and set her down in the fire-seat. She would have struggled to her feet if she had been able; she felt something like repulsion at his touch; but he looked at her with the mute eloquence of love, and she was ashamed. The house was full of gossips that night. They talked of the marriage customs of old times. One described the “pay-weddings,” where the hat went round, and every guest gave something towards the cost of the breakfast and the expenses of beginning housekeeping--rude forefather of the practice of the modern wedding present. Another pictured the irregular marriages made in public-houses in the days when the island had three breweries and thirty drinking shops to every thousand of its inhabitants. The publican laid two sticks crosswise on the floor, and said to the bride and bridegroom-- “Hop over the sticks and lie crossed on the floor, And you're man and wife for nevermore.”