“Yes, the _Peveril_; but not water enough to float her till half-past seven, they were saying. Here's the lil one's nightdress, and here's her binder, bless her--just big enough for a bandage for a person's wrist if she sprained it churning.” “Lay them on the fender to air, Nancy--I'll not undress baby yet awhile. And see--it's nearly seven.” “I'll be pinning my shawl on and away like the wind,” said Nancy. “The bogh!” she said, with the pin between her teeth. “She's off again. Do you really think, now, the angels in heaven are as sweet and innocent, Kirry? I don't. They can't if they're grown up. And having to climb Jacob's ladder, poor things, they must be. Then, if they're men--but that's ridiculous, anyway.” “The clock is striking, Nancy. No use going when everything's over,” said Kate, and the foot with which she rocked the child went faster now that the little one was asleep. “Sakes alive! Let me tie the strings of my bonnet, woman. Pity you can't come yourself, Kitty. But if they're worth their salt they'll be whipping round this way and giving you a lil tune, anyway.” “Have you got the key, Nancy?” “Yes, and I'll be back in an hour. And mind you put baby to bed soon, and mind you--and mind you----” With as many warnings as if she had been mistress and Kate the servant, Nancy backed herself out of the house. It was now dark outside. Kate rose immediately, put the child in the cradle, and began to lay the table for Pete's supper--the cruet, the plates, the teapot on the hob to warm, and then--by force of habit--two cups and saucers. But sight of the cups awakened her to painful consciousness. She put one of them back in the cupboard, broke the coal on the fire, settled the kettle up to the blaze, fixed the Dutch oven with three rashers of bacon before the bars, then lit a candle, and, with a nervous look around, turned to go upstairs. In the bedroom she drew on her cloak, pinned her hat and veil with trembling fingers, then took her purse from her pocket and emptied its contents onto the dressing-table. “Not mine,” she thought. And standing before the mirror at that moment, she caught sight of her earrings. “I must take nothing of his,” she told herself, and she raised her hands to her ears. Then her heart smote her. “As if Pete would ever think of such things,” she thought. “No, not if I took everything he has in the world. And must _I_ be thinking of them?... Yet I cannot--I will not take them with me.” She opened a drawer and hurried everything into it--the money, the earrings, the keeper off her finger, and then she paused at the touch of the wedding-ring. A superstitious instinct restrained her. Yet the ring was the badge of her broken covenant. “With this ring I thee wed----” She tore off the wedding-ring also, and cast it with the rest.