The postman went off blinking and giggling, and Pete reeled up the path, biting his lip, and muttering, “Keep it up, Pete, keep it up--it's ploughing a hard furrow, though.” Then aloud, “A letter from the mistress, Nancy.” Nancy met him in the porch, clearing her fingers, thick with dough. “There you are,” said Pete, flapping the letter on one hand. “Good sakes alive!” said Nancy. “Did it come by the post, though, Pete?” “Look at the stamp, woman, and see for yourself,” said Pete. “My goodness me! From Kirry, you say?” “Let me in, then, and I'll be reading you bits.” Nancy went back to her kneading with looks of bewilderment, and Pete followed her, opening the letter. “She's well enough, Nancy--no need to read that part at all. But see,” running his forefinger along the writing “'_Kisses for the baby, and love to Nancy, and tell Grannie not to be fretting?_ et setterer, et setterer. See?” Nancy looked up at her thumping and thunging, and said, “Did Mr. Kelly give it you?” “He did that,” said Pete, “this minute at the gate. It's his time, isn't it?” Nancy glanced at the clock. “I suppose it must be right,” she said. “Take it in your hand, woman,” said Pete. Nancy cleaned her hands and took the letter, turned it over and felt it in her fingers as if it had been linen. “And this is from Kirry, is it? It's nice, too. I haven't much schooling, Pete, but I'm asking no better than a letter myself. It's like a peppermint in your frock on Sunday--if you're low you're always knowing it's there, anyway.” She looked at it again, and then she said, like one who says a strange thing, “I once had a letter myself--'deed I had, Pete. It was from father. He went down in the _Black Sloop_, trading oranges with the blacks in their own island somewhere. They put into the port of London one day when they were having a funeral there. What's this one they were calling after the big boots--Wellingtons, that's the man. They were writing home all about it--the people, and the chariots, and the fighting horses, and the music in the streets and the Cateedrals--and we were never hearing another word from them again--never. 'To Miss Annie Cain--your affecshunet father, Joe Cain.' I knew it all off--every word--and I kept it ten years in my box under the lavender.” Philip came later. He was looking haggard and tired; his face was pallid and drawn; his eyes were red, quick, and wandering; his hair was neglected and ragged; his step was wavering and uncertain. “Gough alive, man,” cried Pete, “didn't you take oath to do justice between man and man?” Philip looked up with alarm. “Well?” he said. “Well,” cried Pete, with a frown and a clenched fist, “there's one man you're not doing justice to.” “Who's that?” said Philip with eyes down. “Yourself,” said Pete, and Philip drew a long breath. Pete laughed, protested that Philip must not work so hard, and then plunged into an account of the morning's meeting.