He looked at the pretty face again, and the little knowing airs began to break down. “You're a Manx girl, aren't you?” The smile vanished like a flash. “How do you know that? My tongue doesn't tell you, does it?” And the little thing was ashamed. Pete took the tight-gloved fingers in his big palm. “So you're my lil countrywoman, then?” he said. “How old are you?” The painted lips began to tremble. “Sixteen for harvest,” she answered. “My God!” exclaimed Pete. The darkened eyelids blinked; she was beginning to cry. “It wasn't my fault. He was a visitor with my mother at Ballaugh, and he left me to it.” Pete took a sovereign out of his pocket, and shut it in the girl's hand. “Go home to-night, my dear,” he whispered, and then he clambered out of the place. “Not there!” cried Pete in his heart; “not there--I swear to God she is not there.” That ended his search. He resolved to go home the same night, and he went back to his lodgings to pay his bill. Turning out of Athol Street, Pete was almost overrun by a splendid equipage, with two men in buff on the box-seat, and one man behind. “The Governor's carriage,” said somebody. At the next moment it drew up at Philip's door, its occupant alighted, and then it swung about and moved away. “It was the young Deemster,” said a girl to her companion, as she went skipping past. Pete had seen the tall, dark figure, bent and feeble, as it walked heavily up the steps. “Truth enough,” he thought, “there's nothing got in this world without paying the price of it.” It was three in the morning when Pete reached Ramsey, Elm Cottage was dark and silent. He had to knock again and again before awakening Nancy. “Now, if this had been Kate!” he thought, and a new fear took hold of him. His poor darling, his wandering lamb, could she have knocked twice? Where was she to-night? He had been picturing her in happiness and plenty--was she in poverty and distress? All the world was sleeping--was she asleep? His hope was slipping away; his great faith was breaking down. “Lord, do not forsake me! Master, strengthen me! My poor lost love, where is she? What is she? Shall I see her face again?” Something cold touched his hand. It was the dog. Without a bark he had put his nose into Pete's palm. “What, Dempster, man, Dempster!” The bat's ears were cocked--Pete felt them--the scut of a tail was wagged, and Pete got comfort from the battered old friend that had tramped the world at his heels. Nancy unchained the door, opened it an inch, held a candle over her head, and peered out. “My goodness, is it the man himself? However did you come home?” “By John the Flayer's pony,” said Pete; and he laughed and made light of his night-long walk. But next morning, when Nancy came downstairs with the child, Pete was busy with a screwdriver taking the chain off the door. “Ter'ble ould-fashioned, these chains--must be moving with the times, you know.” “Then what are you putting in its place?” said Nancy.