Philip's bloodshot eyes seemed to be starting from his head. “Nancy's right--a man would never have thought of the like of that--now, would he?” said Pete, looking proudly from Philip to the hood, and from the hood back to Philip. Philip did not answer. Something seemed to be throttling him. “But when a woman goes away she leaves her eyes behind her, as you might say. 'What'll I be getting for them that's at home?' she's thinking, and up comes a nice warm lil thing for the baby. Aw, the women's good, Philip. They're what they make the sovereigns of, God bless them!” Philip felt as if he must rush out of the house shrieking. One moment he stood up before Pete, as though he meant to say something, and then he turned to go. “Not sleeping to-night, no? Have to get back to Douglas? Then maybe you'll write me a letter first?” Philip nodded his head and returned, his mouth tightly closed, sat down at the table, and took up the pen. “What is it?” he asked. “Am I to give you the words, Phil? Yes? Well, if you won't be thinking mane----” Pete charged His pipe out of his waistcoat pocket, and began to dictate: “Dear wife.'” At that Philip gave an involuntary cry. “Aw, best to begin proper, you know. 'Dear wife,'” said Pete again. Philip made a call on his resolution, and put the words down. His hand felt cold; his heart felt frozen to the core. Pete lit up, and walked to and fro as he dictated his letter. Nancy sat knitting by the cradle, with one foot on the rocker. “'Glad to get your welcome letter, darling, and the bonnet for the baby'-----” “'Go on,” said Philip, in an impassive voice. “Got that down, Philip? Aw, you're smart wonderful with the pen, though.... 'When she's got it on her lil head you'd laugh tremenjous. She's straight like a lil John the Baptist in the church window'--” Pete paused; Philip lifted his pen and waited. “Done already? Man veen, there's no houlding you.... 'Glad to hear you're so happy and comfortable with Uncle Joe and Auntie Joney. Give the pair of them my fond love and best respects. We're getting on beautiful, and I'm as happy as a sandboy. Sometimes Grannie gets a bit down with longing, and so does Nancy, but I tell them you'll be home for their funeral sarmon, anyway, and then they're comforted wonderful.'” “Don't be writing his rubbage and lies, your Honour,” said Nancy. “Chut! woman; where's the harm at all? A merry touch to keep a person's spirits up when she's away from home--eh, Philip?” and Pete appealed to him with a nudge at his writing elbow. Philip gave no sign. With a look of stupor he was staring down at the paper as he wrote. Pete puffed and went on--