In the mists of morning, Grannie had awakened in her bed with the turfy scraas of the thatch just visible above her, and the window-blind like a hazy moon floating on the wall at her side. And, fixing her nightcap, she had sighed and said, “I can't close my eyes for dreaming that the poor lad has come to his end untimeously.” Cæsar yawned, and asked, “What lad?” “Young Pete, of course,” said Grannie. Cæsar _umpht_ and grunted. “We were poor ourselves when we began, father.” Grannie felt the glare of the old man's eye on her in the darkness. “'Deed, we were; but people forget things. We had to borrow to buy our big overshot wheel; we had, though. And when ould Parson Harrison sent us the first boll of oats, we couldn't grind it for want of----” Cæsar tugged at the counterpane and said, “Will you lie quiet, woman, and let a hard-working man sleep?” “Then don't be the young man's destruction, Cæsar.” Cæsar made a contemptuous snort, and pulled the bedclothes about his head. “Aw, 'deed, father, but the girl might do worse. A fine, strapping lad. And, dear heart, the cheerful face _at_ him! It's taking joy to look at--like drawing water from a well! And the laugh _at_ the boy, too--that joyful, it's as good to hear in the morning as six pigs at a lit----” “Then marry the lad yourself, woman, and have done with it,” cried Cæsar, and, so saying, he kicked out his leg, turned over to the wall, and began to snore with great vigour. XI. The tide was up in Ramsey Harbour, and rolling heavily on the shore before a fresh sea-breeze with a cold taste of the salt in it. A steamer lying by the quay was getting up steam; trucks were running on her gangways, the clanking crane over her hold was working, and there was much shouting of name, and ordering and protesting, and general tumult. On the after-deck stood the emigrants for Kimberley, the Quarks from Glen Rushen, and some of the young Gills from Castletown--stalwart lads, bearing themselves bravely in the midst of a circle of their friends, who talked and laughed to make them forget they were on the point of going. Pete and Phil came up the quay, and were received by a shout of incredulity from Quayle, the harbour-master. “What, are you going, too, Mr. Philip?” Philip answered him “No,” and passed on to the ship. Pete was still in his stocking cap and Wellington boots, but he had a monkey-jacket over his blue guernsey. Except for a parcel in a red print handkerchief, this was all his kit and luggage. He felt a little lost amid all the bustle, and looked helpless and unhappy. The busy preparations on land and shipboard had another effect on Philip. He sniffed the breeze off the bay and laughed, and said, “The sea's calling me, Pete; I've half a mind to go with you.”