He got up, with head aside, took a candle from Nancy's hand, excused himself to Pete--he was tired, sleepy, had a heavy day to-morrow--said “Good-night,” and went upstairs--stumbling and floundering--tore open his bedroom door, and clashed it back like a man flying from an enemy. Pete thought he had succeeded to admiration, but he looked after Philip, and was not at ease. He had no misgivings. Writing was writing to him, and it was nothing more. But in the deep midnight, Philip, who had not slept, heard a thick voice that was like a sob coming from somewhere downstairs. He opened his door, crept out on to the stairhead, and listened. The house was dark. In some unseen place the voice was saying-- “Lord, forgive me for deceaving Philip. I couldn't help it, though; Thou knows, Thyself, I couldn't. A lie's a dirty thing, Lord. It's like chewing dough--it sticks in your throat and chokes you. But I had to do it to save my poor lost lamb, and if I didn't I should go mad myself--Thou knows I should. So forgive me, Lord, for Kirry's sake. Amen.” The thick voice stopped, the house lay still, then the child awoke in a room beyond, and its thin cry came through the darkness. Philip crept back in terror. “This is what _she_ had to go through! O God! My God!” V. Cæsar called next day and took Pete to the office of the High Bailiff, where the business of the mortgage was completed. The deeds of Ballawhaine were then committed to Cæsar's care for custody and safe keeping, and he carried them off to his safe at the mill with a long stride and a face of fierce triumph. “The ould Ballawhaine is dying,” he thought; “and if we kick out the young one some day, it'll only be the Lord's hand on a rascal.” On drawing his big cheque, Pete had realised that, with reckless spending, and more reckless giving, he had less than a hundred pounds to his credit. “No matter,” he thought; “Philip will pay me back when he comes in to his own.” Grannie was with Nancy at Elm Cottage when Pete returned home. The child was having its morning bath, and the two women were on their knees at either side of the tub, cackling and crowing like two old hens over one egg. “Aw, did you _ever_, now, Nancy? 'Deed, no; you never _did_ see such a lil angel. Up-a-daisy!” “Cry I must, Grannie, when I see it looking so beautiful. Warm towels, you say? I'm a girl of this sort--when I get my heart down, I can never get it up again. Fuller's earth, is it? Here, then.” “Boo--loo--loo! the bog millish! Nancy, we must be shortening her soon.” And with that they fell to an earnest council on frocks and petticoats, and other mysteries unread by man. Pete sat and watched and listened. “People will be crying shame on her if they see the Grannie doing everything,” he thought.