She hung her head at the sweet praise, but answered tartly, “How people will be talking!” A dead white light came sweeping over the front of the house, and the trees and the hedges, all quiet until then, began to shudder. Kate shuddered too, and drew the frills closer about her throat. “I'm going, Pete,” she whispered. “Not yet. It's only a taste of the salt from the sea,” said Pete. “The moon's not out many minutes.” “Why, you goose, it's been gone these two hours. This isn't Jupiter, where it's moonlight always.” “Always moonlight in Jubiter, is it?” said Pete. “My goodness! What coorting there must be there!” A cock crowed from under the hen-roost, the dog barked indoors, and the mare began to stamp in her stall. “When do you sail, Pete?” “First tide--seven o'clock.” “Time to be off, then. Good-bye!” “Hould hard--a word first.” “Not a word. I'm going back to bed. See, there's the sun coming up over the mountains.” “Only a touch of red on the tip of ould Cronky's nose. Listen! Just to keep them dandy-divils from plaguing you, I'll tell Phil to have an eye on you while I'm away.” “Mr. Christian?” “Call him Philip, Kate. He's as free as free. No pride at all. Let him take care of you till I come back.” “I'm shutting the window, Pete!” “Wait! Something else. Bend down so the ould man won't hear.” “I can't reach--what is it?” “Your hand, then; I'll tell it to your hand.” She hesitated a moment, and then dropped her hand over the window-sill, and he clutched at it and kissed it, and pushed back the white sleeve and ran up the arm with his lips as far as he could climb. “Another, my girl; take your time, one more--half a one, then.” She drew her arm back until her hand got up to his hand, and then she said, “What's this? The mole on your finger still, Pete? You called me a witch--now see me charm it away. Listen!--'Ping, ping, prash, Cur yn cadley-jiargan ass my chass.'” She was uttering the Manx charm in a mock-solemn ululation when a bough snapped in the orchard, and she cried, “What's that?” “It's Philip. He's waiting under the apple-tree,” said Pete. “My goodness me!” said Kate, and down went the window-sash. A moment later it rose again, and there was the beautiful young face in its frame as before, but with the rosy light of the dawn on it. “Has he been there all the while?” she whispered. “What matter? It's only Phil.” “Good-bye! Good luck!” and then the window went down for good. “Time to go,” said Philip, still in his tall silk hat and his knickerbockers. He had been standing alone among the dead brown fern, the withering gorse, and the hanging brambles, gripping the apple-tree and swallowing the cry that was bubbling up to his throat, but forcing himself to look upon Pete's happiness, which was his own calamity, though it was tearing his heart out, and he could hardly bear it. The birds were singing by this time, and Pete, going back, sang and whistled with the best of them. X.