But Pete could hear, nothing except his own voice. “The ould angel herself, she's all right, but the ould man's hard. Spake for me, Phil; you've got the fine English tongue at you.” “But what about?” Philip said again. “Say I may be a bit of a rip, but I'm not such a bad sort anyway. Make me out a taste, Phil, and praise me up. Say I'll be as good as goold; yes, will I though. Tell him he has only to say yes, and I'll be that studdy and willing and hardworking and persevering you never seen.” “But, Pete, Pete, Pete, whatever am I to say all this about?” Pete's puffing and panting ceased. “What about? Why, about the girl for sure.” “The girl!” said Philip. “What else?” said Pete. “Kate? Am I to speak for you to the father for Kate?” Philip's voice seemed to come up from the bottom depths of his throat. “Are you thinking hard of the job, Phil?” There was a moment's silence. The blood had rushed to Philip's face, which was full of strange matter, but the darkness concealed it. “I didn't say that,” he faltered. Pete mistook Philip's hesitation for a silent commentary on his own unworthiness. “I know I'm only a sort of a waistrel,” he said, “but, Phil, the way I'm loving that girl it's shocking. I can never take rest for thinking of her. No, I'm not sleeping at night nor working reg'lar in the day neither. Everything is telling of her, and everything is shouting her name. It's 'Kate' in the sea, and 'Kate' in the river, and the trees and the gorse. 'Kate,' 'Kate,' 'Kate,' it's Kate constant, and I can't stand much more of it. I'm loving the girl scandalous, that's the truth, Phil.” Pete paused, but Philip gave no sign. “It's hard to praise me, that's sarten sure,” said Pete, “but I've known her since she was a little small thing in pinafores, and I was a slip of a big boy, and went into trousers, and we played Blondin in the glen together.” Still Philip did not speak. He was gripping the stable-wall with his trembling fingers, and struggling for composure. Pete scraped the paving-stones at his feet, and mumbled again in a voice that was near to breaking. “Spake for me, Phil. It's you to do it. You've the way of saying things, and making them out to look something. It would be clane ruined in a jiffy if I did it for myself. Spake for me, boy, now won't you, now?” Still Philip was silent. He was doing his best to swallow a lump in his throat. His heart had begun to know itself. In the light of Pete's confession he had read his own secret. To give the girl up was one thing; it was another to plead for her for Pete. But Pete's trouble touched him. The lump at his throat went down, and the fingers on the wall slacked away. “I'll do it,” he said, only his voice was like a sob.