“The friend, yes, but you'll allow not exactly the companion----” “If he is simple, it is the simplicity of a nature too large for little things.” “The dear fellow! He's not a bit jealous of you, Philip.” “Such feelings are far below him, Auntie.” “He's your first cousin after all, Philip. There's no denying that. As he says, the blood of the Christians is in him.” The conversation took a turn. Auntie Nan fell to talking of the other Peter, uncle Peter Christian of Ballawhaine. This was the day of the big man's humiliation. The son he had doted on was disgraced. She tried, but could not help it; she struggled, but could not resist the impulse--in her secret heart the tender little soul rejoiced. “Such a pity,” she sighed. “So touching when a father--no matter how selfish--is wrecked by love of a thankless son. I'm sorry, indeed I am. But I warned him six years ago. Didn't I, now?” Philip was far away. He was seeing visions of Pete going home, the deserted house, the empty cradle, the desolate man alone and heart-broken. They rose from the table and went into the little parlour, Auntie Nan on Philip's arm, proud and happy. She fluttered down to the piano and sang, to cheer him up a little, an old song in a quavering old voice. “Of the wandering falcon The cuckoo complains, He has torn her warm nest, He has scattered her young.” Suddenly Philip got up stiffly, and said in a husky whisper, “Isn't that his voice?” “Who's, dear?” “Pete's.” “Where, dearest?” “In the hall.” “I hear nobody. Let me look. No, Pete's not here. But how pale you are, Philip. What's amiss?” “Nothing,” said Philip. “I only thought----” “Take some wine, dear, or some brandy. You've overtired yourself to-day, and no wonder. You must have a long, long rest to-night.” “Yes I'll go to bed at once.” “So soon! Well, perhaps it's best. You want sleep: your eyes show that. Martha! Is everything ready in the Deemster's room? All but the lamp? Take it up, Martha. Philip, you'll drink a little brandy and water first? I'll carry it to your room then; you might need it in the night. Go before me, dear. Yes, yes, you must. Do you think I want you to see how old I am when I'm going upstairs? Ah! I hadn't to climb by the banisters this way when I came first to Bal-lure.” On reaching the landing, Philip was turning to his old room, the bedroom he had occupied from his boyhood up, the bedroom of his mother's father, old Capt'n Billy. “Not that way to-night, Philip. This way--_there!_ What do you say to _that?_” She pushed open the door of the room opposite, and the glow of the fire within rushed out on them. “My father's room,” said Philip, and he stepped back. “Oh, I've aired it, and it's not a bit the worse for being so long shut up. See, it's like toast Oo--oo--oo! Not the least sign of my breath. Come!” “No, Auntie, no.”