Pete found no hollow ring in it. “God bless you, Phil,” he said; “you've done the best for me, I know that. My pocket's as low as my heart, and it isn't fair to the girl, or I shouldn't be asking the ould man's lave anyway.” He stood a moment in silence, crunching the wooden laths of the garden fence like matchwood in his fingers, and then said, with sudden resolution, “I know what I'll do.” “What's that?” said Philip.. “I'll go abroad; I'll go to Kimberley.” “Never!” “Yes, will I though, and quick too. You heard what the men were saying in the evening--there's Manx ones going by the boat in the morning? Well, I'll go with them.” “And you talk of being low in your pocket,” said Phil. “Why, it will take all you've got, man.” “And more, too,” said Pete, “but you'll lend me the lave of the passage-money. That's getting into debt, but no matter. When a man falls into the water he needn't mind the rain. I'll make good money out yonder.” A light had appeared at the window of an upper room, and Pete shook his clenched fist at it and cried, “Good-bye, Master Cregeen. I'll put worlds between us. You were my master once, but nobody made you my master for ever--neither you nor no man.” All this time Philip knew that hell was in his heart. The hand that had let him loose when his anger got the better of him with Cæsar was clutching at him again. Some evil voice at his ear was whispering, “Let him go; lend him the money.” “Come on, Pete,” he faltered, “and don't talk nonsense!” But Pete heard nothing. He had taken a few steps forward, as far as to the stable-yard, and was watching the light in the house. It was moving from window to window of the dark wall. “She's taking the father's candle,” he muttered. “She's there,” he said softly. “No, she has gone. She's coming back though.” He lifted the stocking cap from his head and fumbled it in his hands. “God bless her,” he murmured. He sank to his knees on the ground. “And take care of her while I'm away.” The moon had come up in her whiteness behind, and all was quiet and solemn around. Philip fell back and turned away his face. VIII. When Cæsar came in after seeing Philip to the door, he said, “Not a word of this to the girl. You that are women are like pigs--we've got to pull the way we don't want you.” On that Kate herself came in, blushing a good deal, and fussing about with great vigour. “Are you talking of the piggies, father?” she said artfully. “How tiresome they are, to be sure! They came out into the yard when the moon rose and I had such work to get them back.” Cæsar snorted a little, and gave the signal for bed. “Fairies indeed!” he said, in a tone of vast contempt, going to the corner to wind the clock. “Just wakeness of faith,” he said over the clank of the chain as the weights rose; “and no trust in God neither,” he added, and then the clock struck ten.