“Coorse you couldn't, Mistress Kewley,” Pete replied. But he swung up and kicked the door to in their faces. The strangers being shut out, Cæsar said cautiously-- “Do you mane that, Peter?” “Molly's smoking at the gate like a brewer's vat, father,” said Pete. “The half hasn't been told you, Peter. Listen to me. It's only proper you should hear it. When you were away at Kim-berley this Ross Christian was bothering the girl terrible.” “She'll be getting cold so long out of the stable,” said Pete. “I rebuked him myself, sir, and he smote me on the brow. Look! Here's the mark of his hand over my temple, and I'll be carrying it to my grave.” “Ross Christian! Ross Christian!” muttered Pete impatiently. “By the Lord's restraining grace, sir, I refrained myself--but if Mr. Philip hadn't been there that night--I'm not hould-ing with violence, no, resist not evil--but Mr. Philip fought the loose liver with his fist for me; he chastised him, sir; he--” “D------the man!” cried Pete, leaping to his feet. “What's he to me or my wife either?” Cæsar went home huffed, angry, and unsatisfied. And then, all being gone and the long strain over, Pete snatched the puling child out of Nancy's arms, and kissed it and wept over it. “Give her to me, the bogh,” he cried, hoarse as a raven, and then sat on the stool before the fire, and rocked the little one and himself together. “If I hadn't something innocent to lay hould of I should be going mad, that I should. Oh, Katherine bogh! Katherine bogh! My little bogh! My I'll bogh millish!” In the deep hours of the night, after Nancy had grumbled and sobbed herself to sleep by the side of the child, Pete got up from the sofa in the parlour and stole out of the house again. “She may come up with the morning tide,” he told himself. “If she does, what matter about a lie, God forgive me? God help me, what matter about anything?” If she did not, he would stick to his story, so that when she came back, wherever she had been, she would come home as an honest woman. “And _will be_, too,” he thought. “Yes, will be, too, spite of all their dirty tongues--as sure as the Lord's in heaven.” The dog trotted on in front of him as he turned up towards Ballure. XIX. Philip had not eaten much that night at dinner. He had pecked at the wing of a fowl, been restless, absent, preoccupied, and like a man struggling for composure. At intervals he had listened as for a step or a voice, then recovered himself and laughed a little. Auntie Nan had explained his uneasiness on grounds of natural excitement after the doings of the great day. She had loaded his plate with good things, and chirruped away under the light of the lamp. “So sweet of you, Philip, not to forget Pete amid all your success. He's really such a good soul. It would break his heart if you neglected him. Simple as a child, certainly, and of course quite uneducated, but----” “Pete is fit to be the friend of any one, Auntie.”