This second task, having gone through the first with dubious success, Philip discharged with conscientious zeal. The effects were peculiar. Their earliest manifestations were, as was most proper, on Philip and Kate themselves. Philip grew to be grave and wondrous solemn, for assuming the tone of guardian lifted his manners above all levity. Kate became suddenly very quiet and meek, very watchful and modest, soft of voice and most apt to blush. The girl who had hectored it over Pete and played little mistress over everybody else, grew to be like a dove under the eye of Philip. A kind of awe fell on her whenever he was near. She found it sweet to listen to his words of wisdom when he discoursed, and sweeter still to obey his will when he gave commands. The little wistful head was always turning in his direction; his voice was like joy-bells in her ears; his parting how under his lifted hat remained with her as a dream until the following day. She hardly knew what great change had been wrought in her, and her people at home were puzzled. “Is it not very well you are, Kirry, woman?” said Grannie. “Well enough, mother; why not?” said Kate. “Is it the toothache that's plaguing you?” “No.” “Then maybe it's the new hat in the window at Miss Clu-cas's?” “Hould your tongue, woman,” whispered Cæsar behind the back of his hand. “It's the Spirit that's working on the girl. Give it lave, mother; give it lave.” “Give it fiddlesticks,” said Nancy Joe. “Give it brimstone and treacle and a cupful of wormwood and camomile.” When Philip and Kate were together, their talk was all of Pete. It was “Pete likes this,” and “Pete hates that,” and “Pete always says so and so.” That was their way of keeping up the recollection of Pete's existence; and the uses they put poor Pete to were many and peculiar. One night “The Manx Fairy” was merry and noisy with a “Scaltha,” a Christmas supper given by the captain of a fishing-boat to the crew that he meant to engage for the season. Wives, sweethearts, and friends were there, and the customs and superstitions of the hour were honoured. “Isn't it the funniest thing in the world, Philip?” giggled Kate from the back of the door, and a moment afterwards she was standing alone with him in the lobby, looking demurely down at his boots. “I suppose I ought to apologise.” “Why so?” “For calling you that.” “Pete calls me Philip. Why shouldn't you?” The furtive eyes rose to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Well, no; there can't be much harm in calling you what Pete calls you, can there? But then--” “Well?” “He calls me Kate.” “Do you think he would like me to do so?” “I'm sure he would.” “Shall we, then?” “I wonder!” “Just for Pete's sake?” “Just.” “Kate!” “Philip!” They didn't know what they felt. It was something exquisite, something delicious; so sweet, so tender, they could only laugh as if some one had tickled them. “Of course, we need not do it except when we are quite by ourselves,” said Kate.