Next day he pored over the dictionary for an hour, but when he raised his face it wore a look of scepticism and scorn. “This spelling-book isn't taiching you nothing, darling,” he said. “Isn't it. Pete?” “No, nothing,” said Pete. “Here I've been looking for an ordinary word--a _very_ ordinary word--and it isn't in.” “What word is it?” said Elate, leaning over his shoulder. “_Love_,” said Pete. “See,” pointing his big forefinger, “that's where it ought to be, and where is it?” “But _love_ begins _lo_,” said Kate, “and you're looking at _lu_. Here it is--love.” Pete gave a prolonged whistle, then fell back in his chair, looked slowly up and said, “So you must first know how the word begins; is that it, Kitty?” “Why, yes,” said Kate. “Then it's you that's taiching the spelling-book, darling; so we'll put it back on the shelf.” For a fortnight Kate read and replied to Pete's correspondence. It was plentiful and various. Letters from heirs to lost fortunes offering shares in return for money to buy them out of Chancery; from promoters of companies proposing dancing palaces to meet the needs of English visitors; from parsons begging subscriptions to new organs; from fashionable ladies asking Pete to open bazaars; from preachers inviting him to anniversary tea-meetings, and saying Methodism was proud of him. If anybody wanted money, he kissed the Blarney Stone and applied to Pete. Kate stood between him and the worst of the leeches. The best of them he contrived to deal with himself, secretly and surreptitiously. Sometimes there came acknowledgments of charities of which Kate knew nothing. Then he would shuffle them away and she would try not to see them. “If I stop him altogether, I will spoil him,” she thought. One day the post brought a large envelope with a great seal at the back of it, and Kate drew out a parchment deed and began to read the indorsement--“'Memorandum of loan to Cæsar Cre-----'” “That's nothing,” said Pete, snatching the document and stuffing it into his jacket-pocket. Kate lifted her eyes with a look of pain and shame and humiliation, and that was the end of her secretaryship. II. A month after their marriage a man came through the gate with the air of one who was doing a degrading thing. The dog, which had been spread out lazily in the sun before the porch, leapt up and barked furiously. “Who's this coming up the path with his eyes all round him like a scallop?” said Pete. Kate looked. “It's Ross Christian,” she said, with a catch in her breathing. Ross came up, and Pete met him at the door. His face was puffy and pale, his speech was soft and lisping, yet there lurked about the man an air of levity and irony. “Your dog doesn't easily make friends, Peter,” he said. “He's like his master, sir; it's against the principles of his life,” said Pete. Ross laughed a little. “Wants to be approached with consideration, does he, Capt'n?”