“Now, you don't say!” said Nancy with scorching irony. Then, banging her irons, she added, “I'm not much of a woman for a man myself. They're only poor helpless creatures anyway, and I don't approve of them. But if I was for putting up with one of the sort, he wouldn't have legs and arms like a dolly, and a face like curds and whey, and coat and trousers that loud you can hear them coming up the street.” With this parting shot at Ross Christian, Nancy flung into the house, thinking she had given Kate a dressing that she would never forget. Kate was radiant. Such abuse was honey on her lips, such scoldings were joy-bells in her ears. She took silent delight in provoking these attacks. They served her turn both ways, bringing her delicious joy at the praise of Philip, and at the same time preserving her secret. VII. Latter that day Cæsar came in from the mill with the startling intelligence that Philip was riding up on the highroad. “Goodness mercy!” cried Nancy, and she fled away to wash her face. Grannie with a turn of the hand settled her cap, and smoothed her grey hair under it. Kate herself had disappeared like a flash of light; but as Philip dismounted at the gate, looking taller, and older, and paler, and more serious, but raising his cap from his fair head and smiling a smile like sunshine, she was coming leisurely out of the porch with a bewitching hat over her wavy black hair and a hand-basket over her arm. Then there was a little start of surprise and recognition, a short catch of quick breath and nervous salutations. “I'm going round to the nests,” she said. “I suppose you'll step in to see mother.” “Time enough for that,” said Philip. “May I help you with the eggs first? Besides, I've something to tell you.” “Is it that you're 'admitted?'” said Kate. “That's nothing,” said Philip. “Only the A B C, you know. Getting ready to begin, so to speak.” They walked round to the stackyard, and he tied up his horse and gave it hay. Then, while they poked about for eggs on hands and knees among the straw, under the stacks and between the bushes, she said she hoped he would have success, and he answered that success was more than a hope to him now--it was a sort of superstition. She did not understand this, but looked up at him from all fours with brightening eyes, and said, “What a glorious thing it is to be a man!” “Is it?” said Philip. “And yet I remember somebody who said she wasn't sorry to be a girl.” “Did I?” said Kate. “But that was long ago. And _I_ remember somebody else who pretended he was glad I was.” “That was long ago too,” said Philip, and both laughed nervously. “What strange things girls are--and boys!” said Kate with a matronly sigh, burying her face in a nest where a hen was clucking and two downy chicks were peeping from her wing. They went through to the orchard, where the trees were breaking into eager blossoms. “I've another letter for you from Pete,” said Philip. “So?” said Kate.