“He's that tender-hearted and sympathising,” whispered Pete as he closed the door. (_Cough, cough_)... “The letter's finished, though--and here's the envelope.” VIII. The following evening the Deemster was in his rooms in Athol Street. His hat was on, his cloak was over his arm, he was resting his elbow on the sash of the window and looking vacantly into the churchyard. Jem was behind him, answering at his back. Their voices were low; they scarcely moved. “All well upstairs?” said Philip. “Pretty well, your Honour.” “More cheerful and content?” “Much more, except when your Honour is from home. 'The Deemster's back,' she'll say, and her poor face will be like sunshine on a rainy day.” Philip remained silent for a moment, and then said in a scarcely audible voice-- “Not fretting so much about the child, Jemmy?” “Just as anxious to hear of it, though. 'Has he been to Ramsey to-day? Did he see her? Is she well?' That's the word constant, sir.” The Deemster was silent again, and Jem was withdrawing with a deep bow. “Jemmy, I'm going to Government House, and may be late. Don't wait up for me.” Jem answered in a half whisper, “Some one waits up for your Honour whether I do or not 'He's at home now,' she'll say, and then creep away to bed.” Philip muttered, thickly and huskily, “The decanter is empty--leave out another bottle.” Then he turned to go from the room, keeping his eyes from his servant's face. He found the Governor as violent as before, and eager to fall on him before he had time to speak. “They tell me. Deemster, that the leader of this rising is a sort of left-hand relative of yours. Surely you can stop the man.” “I've tried to, your Excellency, and failed,” said Philip. The Governor tossed up his chin. “I'm told the fellow can't even write his own name,” he said. “It's true,” said Philip. “An illiterate and utterly uneducated person.” “All the same, he's the wisest and strongest man on this island,” said Philip decisively. The Governor frowned, and the pockmarks on his forehead seemed to swell. “The wisest and strongest man on this island will have to leave it,” he said. Philip made no answer. He had come to plead, but he saw that it was hopeless. The Governor put his right hand in the breast, of his white waistcoat--he was alone in the dining-room after dinner--and darted at Philip a look of anger and command. “Deemster,” he said, “if, as you say, you cannot stop this low-bred rascal, there's one thing you can do--leave him to himself.” “That is to say,” said Philip out of a corner of his mouth, “to you.” “To me be it, and who has more right?” said the Governor hotly. Philip held himself in hand. He was silent, and his silence was taken for submission. Cracking some nuts and munching them, the Governor began to take another tone.